


efface the footprints in the sands

by blackkat



Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Jedi Philosophy (Star Wars), M/M, Misunderstandings, Morality, Multi, actions have consequences, in the past, this time specifically Anakin's actions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:20:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26806489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: When the massacre of the Tusken Raider village is uncovered, Anakin is recalled to Coruscant to face the Council's inquiry into his actions. Agen Kolar takes his place leading the 501st in a treacherous assault on forces trying to conquer Champala, but no one is happy with Anakin's sudden removal, his padawan and Torrent Company least of all.With little support in a campaign that's rapidly spiraling out of control and strange happenings starting to plague the battalion, Agen is in over his head, and Champala's oceans are more than deep enough to drown them all at the first misstep.
Relationships: Agen Kolar & Ahsoka Tano, CT-6116 | Kix/Agen Kolar, CT-6116 | Kix/CT-7567 | Rex, CT-7567 | Rex/Agen Kolar, CT-7567 | Rex/Agen Kolar/CT-6116 | Kix
Comments: 403
Kudos: 1519
Collections: Jedi-Friendly





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that this fic _does_ deal with Anakin facing consequences for his massacre of the Tusken Raiders, and if that's not something that will sit well with you, please move along. There will _not_ , however, be any character bashing of anyone, and all characters will be treated as fairly as I can manage.

“Someday,” T'ra says softly, “the Council will have to stop picking you for such missions, my padawan.”

“I don’t mind it,” Agen says staunchly, because it’s the truth. “It needs to be done.”

T'ra’s expression pulls a little, into a grimace that ends on a sigh. When she reaches out, though, Agen goes easily, letting her pull him in to rest their foreheads together. There's a ripple across her skin, and then horns touch Agen's, making him snort a little, hiding a smile. She used to do that when he was a child, too, so that they could share Zabrak gestures despite her species, and he still loves her for it.

“It _will_ be done,” Agen says quietly, and grips T'ra’s hands. “The Council needs to know the truth.”

T'ra’s sigh is a little rueful. “They do,” she agrees, and lifts her head, horns shrinking back into more Human features. “None of us want to believe it, but Tholme was most certain.”

A Shadow’s words carry weight. Agen is sure that Tholme believes what he’s saying is the truth, and that he would never try to hide or misconstrue facts, but—

“The Council will find the truth,” Agen says, because he has faith in his fellow Jedi, but this is one Jedi's word against another’s until the Council can hear the other side of the story.

“They will,” T'ra says, and brushes her fingers lightly through his hair. “You are a good man, Agen, and a great Jedi. But this will be difficult.”

“I am aware,” Agen says quietly, and his face is still bruised from Shogar Tok’s beating, his body still aches, but—this is more important. If the accusations _are_ true, they need to be dealt with.

It doesn’t matter if the Jedi win the war if they have to compromise their values to do so. Agen won't be part of such a thing. Fighting with clones who don’t have a voice in their use is already past what should be borne, and Agen can't withstand _more_.

T'ra sighs, reaching up to pull a flower off her hair. The strand curls down against her shoulder, immediately blooming again, and T'ra reaches out, sliding the blossom into the cloth wrap around a lock of Agen's hair. “Just be careful, Agen,” she says quietly.

“You as well,” Agen says. “My task ends on Champala. Yours takes you back to Coruscant, and through danger.”

“Little danger, to me,” T'ra says, amused, and strokes his hair once more before rising to her feet and pulling Agen up with her. “Commander Uneti and his men will help, as well.”

Agen casts a glance at the clone trooper with deep purple marked on his armor, and finds the man looking back from the cockpit. Uneti nods, silent reassurance, and Agen inclines his head in return, then says, “Be wary.”

T'ra pauses, thoughtful, considering. “Rare for you to caution against another Jedi,” she says. “Do you feel something, padawan?”

Agen grimaces. It’s been decades since the Force was unclouded, since he had any sort of premonition that looked more than a few hours ahead. But this—this feels like one, even if it shouldn’t. “Many things. Real and otherwise.”

Light steps make T'ra pause, glancing at Uneti as he approaches, and she smiles. “Commander.”

“Generals,” Uneti says with a salute. “We’re landing. And there's a welcome party.”

T'ra’s mouth tightens just a little, but she nods, pulling her cloak up around her shoulders. “Thank you, Uneti. Agen?”

As the Council member, this is his task. Agen hides his grimace, but steps past T'ra and Uneti, puts a hand on his lightsaber—

“Agen Kolar,” T'ra says, exasperated. “If you go into everything looking for a fight, you're going to _find_ one.”

Caught, Agen drops his hand. “Yes, Master,” he says, only a little mulish. “I was just prepared.”

“Prepare less, and think more,” T'ra chides, like he’s a new padawan learner. When Agen frowns at her, she tips her head, the leaves in her hair rustling, and says, “Well?”

Agen snorts, but turns to face the ramp as it descends and starts forward, leaving Uneti and T'ra to catch up. Outside, a wind is picking up, and beyond the distant edges of the plateau that forms the spaceport, Agen can see waves building. It’s not quite a storm, but Champala’s weather is rarely so rough, and Agen doesn’t like it. He ignores the way his cloak whips around him, fluttering in the wind, as he approaches the group gathered to welcome them.

“Master Kolar,” Anakin says gladly, stepping forward to greet him and offering a hand. “Your arrival is unexpected, but most welcome.”

Agen lets his gaze slide from Anakin's hand up to his face, and thinks, _how much more have you hidden from us_.

His voice is cold when he says, “Knight Skywalker. You are hereby relieved of command of the 501st Legion, and Master T'ra Saa will escort you back to Coruscant to face the Council.”

Anakin blinks, drawing back. “What?” he asks, incredulous.

“ _What_?” a louder voice demands, and his padawan takes three steps forward, putting herself right at Anakin's elbow. “What do you mean, _relieved_? Why does he have to face the Council? Where’s Obi-Wan?”

Agen looks her over, and—this is part of it. This is _his_ part of it. He knew what he was accepting when he took the assignment, but—

All he can think of for a moment is Tan, dead on the sands of Geonosis, and his hand goes tight around his lightsaber.

“Master Kenobi will meet Knight Skywalker on Coruscant,” he says. “Padawan Tano, you will remain here with me, and I will take over your training until Skywalker's name is cleared or until other arrangements are made.”

“ _Cleared_?” Ahsoka says loudly. “What the hell—”

“Snips,” Anakin says, raising a hand to cut her off and giving Agen a faintly strained smile. “I'm sure this is all some big misunderstanding. We’ve been here on Champala or with Obi-Wan on Geonosis for weeks.”

“That’s correct,” Agen says. He’s heard Anakin Skywalker is a good swordsman. Agen has confidence that he’s better. The fact that he might have to find out is less alarming than it likely should be. “However, this relates to events before the beginning of the war.”

Anakin frowns, looking lost, and—that’s almost enough to spark Agen's rage. He closes his eyes for a long moment, then deliberately tucks his fingers in his sash rather than wrapping them around his lightsaber hilt. He knows himself, and he knows his own temper. Cold, usually, but—this isn't a situation to be cold about.

“Before the war?” the clone captain behind Anakin says, and he takes a step forward, then hesitates. When Agen looks at him, he visibly steels himself, then says, “Sir, the battalion is already stretched thin. If there's any way this can wait…”

Anakin put this captain in charge of the whole battalion, even over trained commanders, Agen remembers. Perhaps it’s not surprising he’s willing to speak up, in light of that. He isn't about to change the standing of anyone, especially since the arrangement seems to be working well, but it’s still mildly concerning.

“I regret,” Agen says evenly, “that this is not a matter that can wait even another day. Knight Skywalker, you are asked to surrender your lightsaber to Master Saa immediately.”

Anakin pauses, looking from Agen to T'ra. “The Council doesn’t ask Jedi to surrender their lightsabers,” he says after a long moment. “Not for normal matters.”

“Correct,” Agen says flatly. “This is not a normal matter. Comply, or I will make you.”

“No wonder people call you the Council’s attack dog,” Anakin shoots at him, and his frustration is rising, spiking.

Agen doesn’t blink. He knows what people call him, and if that’s how he’s seen, so be it. He’s useful, and he knows his duties as a Jedi, and that’s enough for him. “This is your last warning, Knight Skywalker. Turn over your lightsaber.”

“Master,” Ahsoka says, and then hesitates, looking at Agen. “Maybe you should—”

Anakin scowls, folding his arms over his chest. “Don’t I have a right to know what I'm being accused of?” he demands. “If you're going to drag me all the way back to Coruscant for some trumped-up charge—”

“Murder,” Agen says, and the word is rancid on his tongue. “You are charged with murder.”

Anakin's expression twists with rage, and he advances a step. “ _Everyone_ in this war has killed, Kolar—”

“Not in war,” Agen says quietly, cutting him off. “You are accused of the massacre of an entire village of Tusken Raiders on Tatooine, a few days before the first Battle of Geonosis, in direct violation of multiple sections of the Code.”

Anakin's face goes white beneath his tan, and something like rage eats at the inside of Agen's chest. He breathes in, breathes out, and inclines his head. “Your lightsaber, Skywalker.”

“Anakin _wouldn’t_!” Ahsoka says loudly, pushing forward to put herself directly between Anakin and Agen. “Whoever told you that, it’s a lie! Someone’s setting him up!”

Agen meets Anakin's eyes over her montrals, and the look on Anakin's face is nothing but shock, but—there's no disbelief in him.

And then, ringing with incredulity, Anakin says, “Tusken Raiders are _animals_! They're not even people! Even if I _did_ , who cares?”

T'ra’s indrawn breath is loud in Agen's ears, and the way the clone captain twitches back says he doesn’t take the words any better. Agen doesn’t let them sway him, doesn’t fall towards rage or retreat towards grief, just holds himself in the battering storm of Anakin's emotions and doesn’t move.

“The Council cares very much,” he says quietly, and then, “This is your last warning. Surrender your lightsaber.”

Anakin's expression twists. “This is all a _joke_ ,” he says, dropping his arms and taking a step forward. Maybe a civilian would be intimidated, but Agen looks down his nose at him and doesn’t move. “I did _nothing_! Someone just made up these charges to get me out of the way! We’re on the verge of routing out the Separatist occupation here, and this is direct sabotage of our efforts!”

That’s one of the most optimistic views Agen has heard on the fighting here, and he contains the urge to snort at the self-aggrandizing. Then pauses, breathes in, and reminds himself with a touch of steel that he’s not here to pass judgement, that he can't let his instinct to defend the Code outweigh finding the facts, which the Council will do.

“I will hold the line,” he says, calm, and knows it’s the truth. “If your name is cleared, you can return with no damage done, Knight Skywalker. But accusations of having broken the Code are not so easily ignored, even in times of war.”

“This is stupid,” Anakin says flatly. “I'm not leaving my padawan. I'm not leaving my men!”

“Knight Skywalker,” T'ra says, and rests her hand on Agen's elbow as she steps up beside him. “If this is a false accusation, there’s no harm in meeting with the Council to discuss it. If evidence was planted, we need to know why, and by whom.”

“It must have been,” Anakin snaps. “But find the proof yourself, I'm not leaving the front.”

T'ra’s hand tightens on Agen's arm before he can even think of reaching for his lightsaber. “Anakin,” she says, soft, “the best way to face these charges is to face the Council. It is an order, and you cannot disobey.”

“Or what?” Anakin shoots back. “You're going to throw me out of the Order?”

Agen breathes out through his nose, considering Ahsoka, considering the captain and the two ARC troopers behind Anakin. Anakin is their leader; it won't be surprising if they move to defend him. “Skywalker,” he says. “You have been warned, and we have delivered the Council’s orders. Surrender your lightsaber. I will not tell you again.”

“Master—” Ahsoka starts, worried, but Anakin brushes her hand off when she reaches for his arm.

“Stand back, Snips,” he says. “Don’t get involved.”

He’s still not handing over his lightsaber. Agen closes his hand over the hilt of his own, finger finding the second button. It seems silly to place too much weight on the color of his lightsaber, but—using Tan’s crystal always feels like asking for luck, for an extra edge in the Force. Agen had never expected to use it against another Jedi, but the war is full of surprises.

A friend and fellow Council member’s padawan murdered an entire village full of beings and thinks none of the Jedi should _care_ that he did.

“Very well,” Agen says quietly, and glances at T'ra. Her mouth twists, but she nods, letting go of his arm and stepping back to where Uneti is waiting, tense and alert. Agen waits until she’s well clear, even though she can more than defend herself, and steps forward.

Instantly, Anakin puts a hand on his lightsaber. “You don’t want to do that, Kolar,” he warns.

“I do not,” Agen agrees, and meets his eyes, unhesitating. “However, I have my orders, just as you have yours.”

“And you just agree with whatever the Council tells you to do?” Anakin snaps. He doesn’t give ground, doesn’t take so much as a step back, just draws his lightsaber, hand white-knuckled around it. “No wonder you’re their attack dog.”

“Saying it again will not get any more of a reaction out of me,” Agen points out, and reaches—

With a hissing snap, a blue blade ignites, swings, but Agen is ready. His own snaps up, the blades crash together for half an instant before Agen twists, shoving Anakin's down with a sweep and turning. A second blow slides right past him with hardly an inch to spare, and Agen blocks it, redirects, then twists inside of Anakin's guard, knocks his arm wide, and grabs his wrist in a bruising hold as his own lightsaber comes to rest right beneath Anakin's chin.

“Do not make me break your hand to end this,” he says calmly. “I will if I must, Knight Skywalker.”

The captain is tense, standing right at Anakin's shoulder, and looks half a second away from drawing his blaster. His eyes flicker to Uneti, though, and he hesitates.

“Padawan,” T'ra says, soft.

She doesn’t mean Agen. He doesn’t look behind himself, to where Ahsoka is, but he can hear the hum of her lightsaber, can feel the conflicted roil of her desire to protect her Master and her belief in obeying the Council. She won't strike him, Agen is sure, and he meets Anakin's eyes, holds his gaze steadily.

Anakin glares right back, but he makes no move to protest when Agen pulls the lightsaber from his grip and deactivates it.

“Thank you,” Agen says, and deactivates his own, clipping it to his sash as he steps back. He hands Anakin's weapon to T'ra, who accepts it with a bow of her head, and then says, “Master Saa will escort you to Coruscant and remain with you over the course of the inquiry. She has the Council’s full authority in this matter, so obey her orders as you would the Council’s.”

T'ra flicks him a glance at that, the only one here who knows him well enough to catch the irony in his voice, but she doesn’t say anything, just steps forward, offering Anakin her arm. “Knight Skywalker,” she says soothingly, but Anakin gives her and Agen both a dark look and stalks past them, headed for the ship. Uneti immediately turns to follow, gripping his blaster, and T'ra sighs a little.

“Be safe, my padawan,” she says gently, and reaches up, horns rising from her skin. Normally, in public, Agen might refuse such a gesture, but—

He just crossed blades with another Jedi, and he leans down, clicks their horns together, and closes his eyes.

“May the Force be with you, Master,” he says, and T'ra’s slender fingers stroke his hair for a long moment before she pulls them away.

“And with you,” she returns. “Listen to your instincts. Trust them, and do not raise your blade first.”

Agen nods, tangling their horns for one more moment before he pulls back. “Safe travels.”

“I will see you soon,” T'ra promises, and cups his face for an instant before she’s gone, heading up the ramp into the ship. It closes behind her, and Agen turns to watch it lift off in a whirl of displaced air. The storm clouds are low enough to swallow it within seconds, but Agen keeps watching regardless, tracing the feel of T'ra’s mind as it’s carried away.

He isn't worried for her safety. T'ra is hundreds of years old, a Neti, a former member of the Council. Regardless of how powerful Anakin is, she can withstand it. But—

The fact that he has to make such calculations with another Jedi involved aches, right down to Agen's soul. Quinlan had approached him first with his concerns, with his _visions_ , and Agen had refused to believe it even as he brought it to the Council as a whole. Hadn’t _wanted_ to believe that any Jedi could break the Code so thoroughly and then pretend so well that they were nothing but another member of the Order, fighting for the same things as all the rest of the Jedi. Had _refused_ to believe it, right up until the moment Tholme returned from Tatooine with his findings and laid them out.

It’s only one side of the story. But it’s a very _thorough_ story, and Agen has learned over the course of many, many years in close proximity not to doubt Quinlan's psychometry. If Quinlan saw Anakin commit the crime, and Tholme confirmed it, Agen is willing to believe them.

There's one last brush across his mind before the ship hits hard vacuum, a private farewell from T'ra that echoes with the same sentiments as her public goodbye, but—softer. Agen closes his eyes, accepting them, and breathes out, then raises his head to the wind-driven spray and turns to face the burn of disbelief and distrust.

Just for a moment, he wishes that Faie was here, or Fil, or one of the other commanders he’s accustomed to, but—wishing does nothing to change reality. He has to accept things as they are and adapt to them. Even if those things are the padawan who’s staring at him with a mix of betrayal and anger on her face, and the clone captain who’s too stunned and shaken to move.

There's no real way to give them space or time to process. The war on Champala is fierce for all it’s not being fought in all-out battles across the surface; very soon, they’ll have to move to engage the droid armies, and given the terrain, it will be a hard fight and a treacherous one. The men will need their rest before then, and Agen's overturning of their command won't let them rest easy.

There's little to be done, though. If Anakin did what all the evidence says he did, his judgement as a Jedi can't be trusted. His judgment as a moral being can't trusted, either, and putting lives in his hands—whether civilians or clones—is a risk no Jedi should condone.

There were children’s skeletons in the sand, in the ruin of the camp Tholme found. There was a nexus of the Force, steeped in the Dark Side, that roiled and grew and twisted everything near it, and Agen had seen Tholme’s holos of it and come away…shaken.

Very little has ever managed to unnerve him, but that did.

In light of that, there's no way Agen could have allowed Anakin to continue leading a battalion, or even fighting on the front, even if the Council as a body hadn’t immediately decided to recall him and find the truth. He would have pushed for the move even if the rest of the Council members spoke against it, because the idea of leaving a padawan under the command of a man capable of such things turns Agen's stomach, to say nothing of troops conditioned to obey him.

Not that this is made any easier for the padawan and those troops, seeing their general dragged away with no warning and little explanation.

Agen breathes out, steels himself, meets Ahsoka's eyes. She’s glaring, stiff and angry, but Agen simply inclines his head to her.

“The day grows late,” he says. “It seems most productive to discuss matters in the morning, given the lull in the fighting. I will speak with you then, Padawan Tano, unless you wish to seek me out.”

“No,” Ahsoka says tightly. “I think I’ll be all right, Master Kolar.”

As is to be expected. Agen nods, accepting that, and steps past her. Says, to the captain, “Captain Rex. Are you willing to brief me on the situation in the morning? I read your reports on the last few engagements, and have heard the admirals’ assessment of things, but I would like your immediate appraisal of how things are going.”

“Of course, sir,” Rex says after a moment, careful, like he’s picking his words. “At five? That’s sunrise.”

“All right,” Agen says, and—that means he’ll have to get up early to finish his katas and meditation before the meeting. He’d been hoping to rest, because he still aches from his time as Shogar’s prisoner, but it’s a simple enough adjustment to make. “Thank you, Captain.”

He doesn’t answer beyond a nod, and after a moment Agen bows shallowly, then straightens and heads for the camp on the adjacent strip of raised ground. There's a channel between it and the landing area that’s already filling with seawater as the tide changes, and Agen eyes it, then leaps the gap, landing a little more heavily than he intends on the other side and wincing as he stumbles a step. Shogar Tok wasn’t kind to him, and his chest aches.

A night to sleep will be good. Agen feels like he hasn’t stopped moving since Brentaal IV, and hasn’t had a full night’s rest in longer. But—

Everyone is stretched thin. This is nothing new, and every Jedi and clone is experiencing the same right now.

With a contained sigh, Agen straightens, resisting the urge to press a hand to his ribs. The camp is laid out in neat lines, with Anakin's tent right past the waiting transports, but Ahsoka is likely sharing that one, and Agen refuses to invade her quarters when she’s still reeling. He’ll need to find the quartermaster, get another tent, set it up. Under normal circumstances he’d have brought his own supplies, but this was a last-minute course diversion from his return to the Temple, and after the rout on Brentaal the troops he was with had already been short on the necessities, battered and worn and limping as they made their way back towards Coruscant.

The campaigns all see to blur together, after long enough, Agen thinks, and looks for the closest trooper as he starts into the camp. There are several in a group outside what looks like the mess tent, playing sabacc, but they're laughing and he doesn’t want to interrupt. A short distance on, another handful of troopers are asleep in the wind outside their tent, using each other as pillows, and Agen feels something soften in his chest as he passes. He takes a moment to reach out, to soothe the dreams he can feel getting tense, and one of them lets out a rattling snore that make him smile just a little.

He doesn’t have troops of his own. _Didn’t_ have troops of his own, now. For most of the war he’s been deployed in Hutt space, trying to track down those supplying the Separatist, trying to root out contacts they might have had among the Hutts. Being recalled, first to fight on Brentaal and now for this, has its apparent upsides, though. Agen is rather solitary by nature, by species, but—bonds like this he can understand, and want.

With a touch of something more peaceful settling in his chest, Agen leaves the troopers to sleep, confident that their companions will wake them if the weather turns, and makes his way through the camp. A couple of troopers give him curious glances, but they salute and keep moving, and Agen doesn’t waylay them. The layout is simple enough to understand, once he sees the pattern of it, and he moves down wide aisles between the tents, trying to keep his steps steady despite the growing ache in his chest.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm starting rotating updates on Tuesdays for four of my WIPs including this one. As it stands, the current schedule is:
> 
> 13 October - Spring in Hell (and everything’s blooming)  
> 20 October - like a dark horse made of air  
> 27 October - made of hurricanes and ether  
> 3 November - efface the footprints in the sands

At an intersection between two lanes, there's a trooper sitting alone, humming to himself as he cleans a rotary blaster. Agen pauses for a moment, watching his hands work with quick efficiency, and then steps forward and says, “Excuse me, trooper.”

The clone glances up, brows rising. His head is shaved, and there are parallel blue lines that curve around one eye and back across his skull, matching the blue lines that frame his armor. “General, sir,” he says, and starts to rise.

Agen raises a hand, stopping him. “I'm sorry to interrupt,” he says. “But I was looking for the medical tent.”

The trooper blinks, then snickers, sinking back down. “Yeah? No wonder General Skywalker couldn’t help,” he says cheerfully. “Bet he has no idea where that is.”

A stark reminder that Agen is going to have to address the troops at some point, tell them that he’s taking over command. This goodwill will likely only last until then, Agen thinks, and doesn’t allow himself to grimace. “Do you?” he asks, raising a brow, and the trooper grins at him.

“’Course, sir,” he says. “Kix isn't scary unless you're an idiot. Three blocks down and five over, western edge of the camp.”

It would have taken Agen a long while to make his way in that direction, given his wandering. He inclines his head, then says, “Thank you, trooper. May I ask your name?”

“Hardcase, sir!” the clone says brightly, saluting. “And you're a general, but beyond that, I've no idea, sorry.”

A flicker of humor rises, and Agen folds his hands together and bows. “Jedi Master Agen Kolar. It is an honor to meet you, Hardcase.”

Hardcase laugh, giving him a slightly off-center salute. “Honor’s mine, General Kolar. Need help getting to Kix?”

“No, but thank you.” Agen inclines his head, then steps away, leaving Hardcase to finish cleaning his weapon. He can hear laughter and loud voices from further away, but keeps to the narrower lanes between the bunk-tents as he heads for the far side of the camp. No need to disturb the camp tonight; there will most certainly be rumors spreading, but those won't be enough to unsettle the whole battalion. Tomorrow is soon enough to confirm their fears.

T'ra will likely contact the Council and confirm that she has Anakin, but Agen should contact them himself, should give his report. They need to know what Anakin said, and how he acted. Given his reputation for being impulsive and hotheaded, drawing his lightsaber on another Jedi might be written off as an understandable overreaction, but—

Given what Anakin is accused of, it may be necessary information relating to his character.

He should comm Shaak, too. She was taken to the medbay aboard Plo's ship after Brentaal, and Plo informed him that she was recovering well, but Agen heard of her encounter with the Zeltron Lyshaa. Sun Fe’s murder still pains Shaak, and having to work with her padawan’s murderer—Agen can hardly fathom her strength and composure for that.

Dooku was the cause of Tan’s death, and Agen knows himself. He would never be able to look Dooku in the face, let alone refrain from killing Dooku for his part in it.

“Watch out, coming though!” a voice calls, and Agen automatically twists to the side, letting a pair of clones carrying a piece of machinery pass. They're breathless and staggering, but snickering at each other, clearly unbothered by the work, and Agen watches them pass with a trace of amusement that eats at his old sorrow.

Tan would have loved the clones. If he had met them, he would have adored them to the last man.

Smiling a little, Agen turns away from the main path, then pauses. The medical tent looms a few paces away, the flap pulled up to make a wide entrance, and the interior is brightly lit. Agen dips his head so his horns won't catch as he enters, then straightens, studying the space. It’s neat, clearly well-maintained, and the portable biobeds lining the far wall are all polished to gleaming.

Someone’s also hissing curses in Mando’a, fierce and frustrated, and Agen raises a brow, stepping forward. Through another open flap, he catches a flash of white and blue armor, a clone trooper balanced on the tips of his boots on a crate as he tries to reach a box that’s just beyond the tips of his fingers, pushed back on the shelf until it’s unreachable. The whole shelf sways a little, and the trooper curses again, catching it as he strains a little further for the box. The crate wobbles dangerously, the shelf wavers, and the clone jerks his hand away from the shelf with desperate speed, leaning back. In the same moment, the crate tips, and the trooper overbalances backwards with a loud cry—

Agen catches him, grunting at the impact as forty kilograms of plastoid and more of trooper slams into his chest and jars the breath right out of him. The impact knocks him back, but he catches himself, hits the ground on one knee instead of flat on his back, and manages to keep the trooper from hitting the floor. His vision swims, but Agen grits his teeth and breathes through it, not willing to be beaten by something so minor, and raises a hand, a touch of the Force steadying the swaying shelf before it can fall and pulling the offending box down. It floats lightly to the ground, settling on top of the crate with a thump, and Agen breathes out.

There's a moment of shocked silence, then a horrified breath. The clone jerks forward, scrambling out of Agen's hold, and turns. “General Skywalker, I'm so—oh.”

Agen glances up, raising a brow. The trooper is staring, startled, but—if he was expecting Anakin, that’s understandable.

“I apologize for startling you,” he says, pushing to his feet and brushing off his robes. “It looked as if you were going to be hurt in that fall.”

“Or lose all my supplies,” the trooper says, pulling a face, and casts a glance at the shelf. “I thought the whole thing would be sturdier. Thank you for the save, General.”

“I'm glad I was in time to help,” Agen says, inclining his head, and offers the clone a hand up. “You're Kix, the medic?”

Kix blinks, but takes his hand and lets Agen pull him to his feet. “Yes, sir. Did you need me for something?”

“Medical treatment,” Agen says, and when Kix's eyes widen in horror, he raises his hands. “It’s nothing urgent. If you are otherwise occupied, I can wait.”

“I just _fell on you_ ,” Kix says, sounding horrified. “Sir, you shouldn’t have—I would have been fine—”

“Zabraks are difficult to injure seriously,” Agen says, as gently as he’s able. Kix's distress isn't for show; he truly feels horrified at the thought that he might have hurt Agen, and it’s not precisely soothing, but—it’s kind. Agen, for all his nature, has always appreciated kindness. “The camp’s Chief Medical Officer injuring himself would be far worse.”

Kix's face goes dull red, and he sighs, scrubbing a hand over his intricately shaved hair. “I'm really sorry,” he says. “I can—if you still want me to look at you, I can do it right now.”

Agen inclines his head. “Thank you,” he says gravely, and lets Kix pick up his box and lead the way back out into the main part of the tent.

“It seems like the absolute least I can do,” Kix says a little wryly, and nods at one of the biobeds before he turns towards a small desk set up in one corner. “What am I looking at? If it’s some kind of rare STI, it might have to wait unless it’s life-threatening—I'm running low on some of the treatments.”

“It’s nothing sexual in nature,” Agen says, amused, and settles himself on the biobed, undoing his sash. A little gingerly, he slides his robes off his shoulders, laying them beside him, and then reaches for the bandages Quinlan helped him wrap around his ribs before he departed Brentaal. “My chest has been…uncomfortable.”

“Your chest?” Kix repeats, turning with a frown. One glance at Agen makes him hiss, though, and he crosses the space between them in four long strides, catching Agen's wrist. “General! You shouldn’t take off bandages—”

“A compress,” Agen clarifies. “I believe the ribs are cracked, and I didn’t want them shifting.”

Kix grimaces, taking the bandages and unwrapping them himself, slow and careful. “What happened? Given the bruising, it doesn’t look like a concussion grenade.”

“I was beaten,” Agen says calmly. “For information. My captors were Human, but…enthusiastic in their task.”

Kix sucks in a breath, and his fingers are impossibly light as they brush over Agen's skin. “Kriff, sir. You _shouldn’t_ have caught me. This looks…” He trails off, then grimaces. “Like torture.”

Agen snorts softly, reaching up to pull his hair out of the way as Kix circles behind him. There's a hand on his shoulder, a warning, and then gentle fingers probing the line of his spine. “It could have been far worse. Master Shaak Ti destroyed the fortress’s defenses within a few hours of my capture.”

“There are _boot prints_ on your _spine_ ,” Kix says, sounding horrified. “Why didn’t you go to your medic? They must have had some bacta at least.”

Agen close his eyes, fingers tightening around his hair. T'ra’s flower brushes his skin, and he loosens his grip quickly, not wanting to crush it. “There was no medic available,” he says quietly. “We were on Brentaal IV. There were…many loses, and in the aftermath, my injuries were far less immediate, especially when I was slated to return to Coruscant.”

Kix's exhale is soft, and his hand flattens over Agen's skin for a moment. Agen can feel the wash of his grief, the flicker of regret and exhaustion that rises before he gets himself under control. “Sorry, sir,” he says quietly. “Thank you for coming to see me, then. I—you just got here, right? Jesse said there was a cruiser in orbit.”

“Very briefly,” Agen allows. “It is my old Master’s star destroyer. She will be returning to Coruscant without me.” He considers saying that he’s replacing Anakin, but—

Kix's hand is gentle, and the wash of his emotions is easy, quiet, warm. Traced with sadness, like everything is right now, but still kind. Agen can't help but think of Rex's quiet wariness, Ahsoka's anger, and—he doesn’t want to have to suffer those right now, from so close. After this day, and the last campaign, Agen is…tired.

A quiet beep marks the biobed’s activation, and Kix curls a hand around Agen's shoulder, helping him ease down. It aches a little, but Agen grits his teeth and lets Kix lay him out, managing to swallow a hiss at the pressure against his back.

“Sorry,” Kix says, and there's another beep, then a wash of soothing heat against deep bruises. “It looks like your ribs _are_ cracked, but I think bacta patches should be enough to fix it, if you wear them over a few days. You shouldn’t do any heavy lifting, though, or move too fast. And you should pad your bed with a few extra blankets, if you have them.”

A reminder that Agen still has to visit the quartermaster and see about securing a tent. He doesn’t let himself sigh, but inclines his head, and says, “All right. A bone mender is not an option?”

Kix grimaces. “They're being repaired,” he says unhappily. “The salt and humidity killed all three of them, and one of the techs is trying to get them back online, but it’s taking longer than expected. As soon as he has it done, though, I’ll let you know.”

Champala is a watery world with very little land, and all of what there is tends to be so low that the tides usually cover it at least once a rotation. Agen is unsurprised to hear that they're having equipment problems, but it’s still unsettling. The battalion needs every piece of medical equipment functioning, or things will go very badly for them regardless of all other factors.

“I will speak with the Council about getting you properly prepared equipment,” Agen says quietly. He can make the request when he comms them later, and hopefully secure some sort of agreement. The GAR is stretched thin, but there are few enough majority aquatic worlds that some equipment can likely be found. “You said you were low on supplies as well?”

There's a pause, and when Agen opens his eyes, Kix is watching him. “Yes, sir. A cargo transport was hit by Sep fire on our way here, and we lost all of the medical supplies that were on it.”

Agen inclines his head, filing that knowledge away as well. “I will see to it,” he promises, and lets his eyes close again. The heat against his back is uncoiling tension he hadn’t even realized he was carrying, sinking deep into aching muscles and making him want to settle down into it and sleep. He turns his head into it a little more, and there's a quiet chuckle as Kix gently presses bacta patches over his ribs.

“I have a heating pad in the storeroom if you want it, General,” he says, amused. “You're welcome to take it back to your tent.”

“As soon as I have a tent, I will take you up on that,” Agen says with dignity, and Kix's hands pause.

“You don’t have a tent?” he asks, startled. “But your troops—”

Agen shakes his head without opening his eyes. “I am the only one who came, and there was no chance to retrieve supplies before my route was diverted. I’ll simply ask the quartermaster here.”

“There aren’t any extra, I don’t think,” Kix says, quietly apologetic. “Most of them are over capacity as it is, since we lost so many supplies. Tents included.”

Agen considers this for a moment, then inclines his head. “I will check anyway,” he says. “Thank you for the information.”

There's another hesitation, and then Kix says, “I've been bedding down in the storeroom here, sir. If you can't find another place, there's more than enough room for two.” A touch of humor colors his voice, his being, and he adds, “Plenty of room for that heating pad.”

With a quiet snort, Agen opens his eyes. “I think this constitutes bribery,” he says, raising a brow.

Kix laughs a little, face flushed, and he feels like embarrassment but also good humor. “I'm a medic, sir. Bribery is one of the first things they teach us. That and threats.”

Amused, Agen shifts a little on the biobed, then sits up when Kix is about to ask it of him. He leans forward, letting Kix get to his back, and says, “You passed the first course, I assume. What about the second?”

“Wait until you see me pull rank,” Kix says, a little dryly, and there's a click. A moment later, bacta gel smears across the bruises on Agen's back, and he closes his eyes in relief. “Is there anything beyond the bruises and the ribs, sir?”

Agen pauses, considering what’s worth using bacta on and what will heal perfectly well on its own. He’s not a vain man, but—scar tissue can interfere with movement, and he would rather not have his swordsmanship impacted by a would-be warlord’s casual cruelty. “If you have bacta to spare for my wrists, I would be grateful.”

“Your wrists?” Kix puts a hand on his shoulder again, circling around, and Agen carefully unlaces the leather bracers around his forearms, pulling them off and setting them on top of his robes. Kix frowns at the bandages there, but reaches out, wrapping his fingers around the back of Agen's hand to hold it steady as he undoes the wrapping, tugging it off. The sight of raw and broken skin where the cuffs cut into Agen's arms makes him wince, and he carefully turns Agen's hand over, studying the extent of the damage.

“These you _definitely_ should have seen a medic about,” he chides, though his tone is gentle. “I'm going to clean them again, just to be sure.”

Agen inclines his head, accepting that. “It was only two days ago,” he says. “I had intended to see the Healers immediately upon my return to Coruscant.”

Kix makes a sound of frustration as he turns away, though Agen can tell it’s not directed at him. “I know, sir, sorry. It’s just…”

He trails off, but Agen tilts his head. “Yes,” he says quietly. “I agree.”

When Kix glances up, his smile is rueful. “I know I already said it, but thank you for coming to see me,” he says. “With the general and the commander—they’d rather be doing other things.”

“My Master is a Healer,” Agen says. “And I was prone to injuries as a child. She would drag me into the Halls of Healing by my horns if I tried to hide injuries from her.”

Kix makes a choked sound, ducking his head like he’s trying not to laugh out loud. “Is she a Zabrak?” he asks, and there's a thread of delight in him that’s sweet.

Agen shakes his head, offering up his wrists again as Kix approaches with a cloth and a bottle of liquid. The first drip of it across his skin makes him want to jerk back at the sudden sting, but he holds still and says, “No, a Neti. Some Jedi prefer to only train those of their own species, but most are less selective when they choose a padawan.”

“I’d been wondering about that,” Kix says. “General Skywalker didn’t know how the selection worked beyond the Force.”

“The Force is most of it,” Agen allows. “But padawans are rarely trained by just one Master. We live communally, and our apprentices are trained the same way.”

There's a moment as Kix concentrates on brushing the disinfectant carefully over Agen's wrists. “Like clones, kind of,” he says after a moment. “With—with how the older clones take over training the youngest. Or—sorry, I don’t mean to make light—”

“You aren’t,” Agen says calmly, decisive. When Kix flicks a glance up at him, he inclines his head, and says, “It is very similar for the Jedi. Senior padawans often oversee classes for initiates, or are tasked with escorting new padawans on simple missions.”

That makes Kix smile a little, and he goes back to cleaning the cuts with something like relief curling around him. “We got to see the initiates once,” he says. “When some of the commanders were on the _Resolute_ , escorting them back to Coruscant. They're…really small. Really cute.”

Agen thinks of Tan the first time Agen had encountered him in the halls, barely seven years old. He’d been lost, trying to find his next lesson when the hall had been changed at the last minute, and Agen had escorted him there. He had been…very small indeed. Very happy.

In that moment, Agen had known precisely who his next padawan would be. Five years down the line, or ten, or whenever Tan advanced, Agen _knew_. The Force had brought Tan into his life, and Agen was hardly one to resist its will.

The thought of initiates on Anakin's flagship makes something cold knot in Agen's stomach, though. He knows, intellectually, that Anakin would likely not harm Jedi younglings, but—

“They are very cute,” he says, refusing to dwell on the images that curl ice down his spine. “When the war is over and I may take another padawan, it will be a very happy day.”

“You can't right now?” Kix asks in surprise. “But General Skywalker was saying he was picked for the commander because they didn’t have enough teachers.”

A mistake, now, Agen can see. They should have been more careful. Anakin has likely already done something unforgivably Dark, and if he had Fallen and taken his padawan with him—

But he didn’t. They uncovered his travesty in time, and Agen will guide Ahsoka as best he can until other decisions are reached.

“I sit on the Council,” he says quietly. “Council members are discouraged from taking padawans, though many do regardless. It splits our attention from the matters that most require it, and is unfair to both the padawan and the Order as a whole.”

“On the _Council_?” Kix says, head jerking up. “You're a _high general_? Sir, I—”

Agen raises a brow at him, bemused. “I failed to introduce myself. My apologies. Master Agen Kolar.” He bows as deeply as the bacta patches will allow, and says, “An honor to meet you.”

“General Kolar,” Kix repeats, and he’s a little red in the face, though Agen doesn’t understand what there is to be embarrassed about. “Sorry, I thought that you were a new Knight, or—I didn’t realize one of the Council had been captured recently.”

“Only for a few hours,” Agen says, and watches as Kix carefully picks up his wrist again, reaching for a tube of bacta. “It was a feint to allow Master Ti time to infiltrate Shogar Tok’s base.”

Kix's breath hitches. “You got tortured for a _feint_?” he asks, dismayed. “Sir, that was—”

“Unavoidable, if I wished to spare what troops remained,” Agen says, perfectly calm. He’d known what surrendering to Shogar would mean. Plo and Shaak were there, though, and he had faith in both of them to fulfill their parts in the plan. “I am well. It worked.”

“If you were well, you wouldn’t be in here,” Kix says, and then winces even as he wraps a bandage around Agen's wrist. “Sorry, sir.”

Agen snorts. “Do not be,” he says. “And you are correct. But I am not seriously harmed, and Brentaal’s recapture means the hyperspace lanes around it are still safe for the Republic.”

He has his own reservations about the chancellor being the one to institute a new government on Brentaal, and what it means for the people there, but—Shogar was a cruel ruler, and a ruthless man. His removal was necessary. Everything else can be dealt with after the war.

There are so many things that fall under that heading now. _After the war_ is a nebulous, golden thing that Agen can hardly even picture, but it will give them time and space to solve all of their problems, to make sure the clones are cared for as they should be, given the rights they should be. Time so that the corruption in the Senate, its stagnation, can finally be addressed. So that the Order can finally step back, redraw the lines that have been crossed so many times in these last few months. Readjust, and mourn, and cope with the fact that where there were once ten thousand Jedi, there are now far fewer.

“Sir?” Kix asks gently, and Agen raises his head, not entirely sure when he bowed it, or when closed his eyes. Kix is watching him, frowning a little, and he reaches out, then hesitates. “You—there's a flower. In your hair.”

Agen blinks, then looks down. T'ra’s flower has shifted, fallen halfway out of the cloth wrap around his hair where it’s loosened. At some point, Agen needs to find a brush, a ‘fresher, redo the ties in his hair so it will stay out of his face. He just…hasn’t managed yet.

“Oh,” he says, and carefully pulls the bloom free. It looks as fresh as the moment T'ra picked it, and Agen knows from experience that it will stay that way for months as long as it isn't damaged. He cups it in his hand, brushing the pink petals, and then reaches up, sliding it behind one ear as he tightens the wrap with a few practiced tugs—

Kix stifles a sound, taking a short step back, and presses a hand over his mouth. Glancing up, Agen raises a brow at him, and he quickly raises both hands, trying to rearrange his expression into something apologetic. “Sorry! Sorry, sir, I just—it’s cute.”

“T'ra’s flowers have always been quite beautiful,” Agen agrees. He tucks the flower into the cloth, then carefully ties off the wrap, checking that it hasn’t been pulled too tight. “She has some sense of awareness of them, after they detach from her, so I try to keep them intact.”

It’s not as if he thinks losing them will _harm_ her. At least, not anymore; that was a child’s notion, proved false back when he was still a new padawan. But…they are a piece of T'ra, like a cut lock of hair, and Agen would hardly be _careless_ with them.

“That’s…sweet,” Kix says after a moment, and when Agen glances up, he’s smiling a little. “Sir, would you like me to lay out the heating pad in the back for you? Just for a few hours. I think sleep would be good for you.”

There were enough arrangements to be made on the trip here that Agen only slept the minimum needed for function, and sleep _would_ likely do him good, but—

“I need to comm the Council,” he says, and pauses, considering planetary times. It’s still very early on Coruscant, and likely the only one of the Council already awake is Yoda. Waiting a few hours will harm nothing, especially since T'ra will submit her report as soon as she returns to her flagship. “But that can wait a few hours. You are correct.”

Kix blinks. “I am?” he asks, startled, and then says quickly, “Right, yes, sleep will be good. I’ll just…go lay out the pad. Do you want any other painkillers? I think I have some that I can adjust to work for a Zabrak, at least for long enough for you to fall asleep.”

Another thing to request, when he comms the Temple. A Zabrak’s system tends to burn through anything engineered for Humans in a matter of minutes, and Agen has little faith in the idea that the fighting will be so light that he can escape it uninjured.

“I will be fine,” he says, “but thank you. Do you need assistance?”

“No, I've got it,” Kix says firmly, and slips away before Agen can even open his mouth, ducking into the back room. There's a rustle, a thump, a quiet curse, and Agen smiles a little to himself, pulling his robes back on carefully. The bandages around his wrists are thin enough that his bracers still fit over them, and he laces them on, pulling the ties just tight enough to hold them in place. There's less of an ache than before, and he rolls his wrists, assessing his range of motion. There's some hindrance, but that’s to be expected, simply something to adjust for.

“Everything all right, General Kolar?” Kix asks, frowning a little as he approaches. “If the bandages are too tight—”

Agen shakes his head. “They are serviceable,” he says. “And I am grateful for them. Thank you, Kix.”

“Of course, sir.” Kix gives him a smile, offering him a hand off the biobed, and then freezes like he just did something wrong. “I—”

A little amused, Agen takes the proffered hand and slides down. He hardly _needs_ it, but the fact that Kix offered automatically is…kind. “I will not disturb you, resting here?” he asks with concern.

“Of course not,” Kix says firmly. “Do you want me to wake you up in a few hours?”

“If it won't inconvenience you,” Agen agrees, and picks up his cloak. The pad in the other room is tucked back in a corner, and there's a trickle of breeze coming in from beneath the tent wall, but when Agen lies down and tosses his cloak over himself, it’s more than warm enough.

For a moment, Kix hovers in the doorway, watching him, but after a moment he gives Agen a quick, awkward smile and disappears into the main part of the tent. Agen can hear him moving around, the click of the box he almost fell trying to retrieve as it opens. The sounds of the camp are outside as well, laughter and voices and the press of many minds, and it’s not entirely dissimilar to being in the Temple. Enough like it, at the very least, that when Agen closes his eyes, it’s incredibly easy to settle down into sleep.

Even with Kix's mind so close, though, even with so many others around, Agen dreams of the camp being swallowed beneath black water, the visions dark and unsettled, and he doesn’t rest easily.


	3. Chapter 3

A sudden crackling _surge_ of pain and fear and panic hurls Agen out of a restless sleep just after midnight, and he’s rising to his feet before he’s even fully awake, calling his lightsaber to his hand.

Somewhere, troopers are screaming. Somewhere, troopers are dying, and Agen can feel it.

He spins, almost trips over a body, and remembers where he is in time to lean down and shake Kix's shoulder, ducking the automatic swat that Kix aims at him as he comes awake. “There’s been an attack,” he says, and gets a half-second impression of Kix's eyes going wide with alarm before he’s out of the medical tent and running, still pulling his cloak around his shoulders.

The first wail of the siren comes just as Agen hits the edge of the main command tent, and he slows even as the flap of the general’s tent beside it jerks open, spilling Ahsoka out into the light as she tries to pull her lekku out of her top and her boots on at the same time. She almost collides with Agen, and he grabs her shoulder, bracing her upright as she wavers.

“Master Kolar!” she says, startled, and then, “There’s an attack, we need to—”

“Yes,” Agen says, and there are already troops moving, shouts rising. He hears booted footsteps approaching at a run and turns to face Rex and the two ARC troopers who were present when he landed, still pulling their helmets on. “The attack is on the western edge of the settlement. I felt deaths in the Force, but I do not know how many.”

Rex's gaze flickers over him, then slides to Ahsoka. “It was a recon squad,” he says. “They're trying to hold the line.”

“Then let us help them,” Agen says simply. “Your company is Torrent, Captain?”

“Yes, sir.” Rex's mouth is a little tight, and Agen gets a half-second flicker of biting wariness as he pulls his helmet on. “Our transport is ready and the men are almost here.”

Agen inclines his head, and out of the corner of his eye he catches sight of familiar armor marked with red as Kix, carrying a medkit, leaps up into the waiting transport with a group of soldiers. One turns to look at him, and Kix puts a hand on his shoulder as he passes, says something that has the trooper with his teardrop-marked helmet nodding quickly. “Good,” he says, and heads for the transport, ignoring the glances and the confusion he can feel when no one else emerges from Anakin's tent. Ahsoka beats him there, hopping up and grabbing one of the straps, and Rex follows her, ducking back a step to give the ARCs and Agen room.

“Attack looks like it’s to the west, sir,” one of the pilots calls back. “Hardcase called for backup, apparently their captain got hit in the first wave.”

Rex's spike of grief stabs like a needle, and Ahsoka winces. Agen glances at her, then at the pilots, and says, “Take us low over the beach. As low as you can get without risking fire.”

There's a startled pause, and the pilot looks back. “Sir? We’re not waiting for General Skywalker?”

“Not this time,” Rex says, coolly even. “Take us up. Like the general said.”

The pilot doesn’t argue, just starts the engines. A moment later, the transport is lifting off, picking up speed as it leaves the camp, and Agen closes his eyes, reaching out. He can feel the pain of wounded men, the fear of civilians as they start a chaotic retreat towards the center of the settlement, the frustration and terror of men trying to fight even as their feet slip.

“The tide is coming in,” he says, opening his eyes. “It’s almost to the edge of the settlement.”

The ARC with a handprint in blue on his breastplate turns his head. “No wonder the aqua droids picked now to attack,” he says grimly.

Champala’s cities and towns all being built in tidal zones, to the point that they're underwater at high tide, will make this difficult. Agen considers, and—his lightsaber will function in water, since it has the casing Kit designed. They need to secure the town before it’s submerged, or the droids will have the advantage.

“How long until high tide?” he asks.

“Four hours,” Rex says grimly. “If the Seps take this settlement, they've got a straight shot towards the plateau and the mines.”

If those mines fall into Separatist hands, the Republic will start to lag on weapons manufacturing, and they're already well behind the Separatists. There are also thousands of Chagrians between the settlement and the mines, right in the path of the droid armies, and Agen refuses to let them be driven out or killed because of Separatist greed.

“Then we have three hours to turn them back,” Agen says, “before the water is too deep.”

Rex's exhale is rough. “Yes, sir. I'm sending men to reinforce the lines on the other approaches to the plateau, but they haven’t seen any movement yet.”

Agen inclines his head, relieved to hear that. The Separatist movement on Champala has been strange, scattered, coming in waves and then dying back to a trickle. They haven’t even been able to identify the general leading the fight, and Agen likes that very little. Quinlan had been investigating, before his capture on Brentaal, but even he could find almost nothing.

“Sure would be a good time to have another Jedi around,” Ahsoka says, eyes fixed on the ocean passing below them, but Agen doesn’t allow himself to react. There's no use in it; Ahsoka is simply angry, and she will process her emotions in time, once the truth comes out.

“Up ahead!” the pilot calls back. “Sir, droids behind the second line!”

Rex curses, catching the edge of the doorway and leaning out. Agen can see the beach below, darkness little impediment to Zabrak eyes; there's a stretch of white sand, trenches and barricades, and the fighting has moved behind it, right to the edge of land that borders the town. Flashes of light mark where troopers have tucked themselves back, finding cover behind trees and walls, but the aqua droids are advancing on them with all the implacableness of machines, and their ranks are thick and deep across the sand. There are more of them, too, flashes of metal in the water to the south, just barely visible in the moonlight.

They're flanking the town, trying to come upon the battalion from two sides to pin them between the deeper ocean and the jungle. From there, the only retreat is back towards the plateau, leaving the settlement to fend for itself.

“Take us down,” Agen starts—

Rex twitches, like he wants to say something, and a mix of indignation and frustration and worry roils across Agen's senses.

Pausing, Agen glances at Rex, then raises a brow. “You have a suggestion, Captain?” he asks.

 _Caught_ , is what that feeling reads. Still, Rex squares his shoulders and says, “Sir, trying to land on the beach is suicide. This line will hold at least long enough for us to land in the town, and we can reinforce the line from behind.”

The troopers won’t last that long without casualties, but from the feel of Rex, the way he’s holding himself, he knows that as well as Agen does. Landing on the beach _would_ be suicide, though, and the odds are they would be shot out of the air as they made their approach. But—

Agen curls his fingers around his lightsaber. “Padawan Tano,” he says quietly, and Ahsoka looks up at him with narrowed eyes, but she’s listening. “Lead one squad to reinforce the southern edge. The troopers there are about to be hit with the second wave.”

Ahsoka nods grimly. “I can do that,” she says, and glances at the other captain in the ship. He nods, and she takes a breath. “You're going to lead the attack on the beach?”

“No,” Agen says. “Captain Rex will lead that charge.”

There's a moment of startled silence, and then Rex says, with the faintest hint of edge to his voice, “Sir, we _need_ another Jedi, or at least another squad if you're going somewhere else—”

“I will clear the beach,” Agen says, and Rex stops short.

“Master,” Ahsoka says, alarmed. “There are _hundreds_ of aqua droids down there!”

Agen shakes his head. “I don’t need to destroy their forces, simply thin them so you two will have time to establish defenses.”

Ahsoka hesitates, looking uncertain, but nods. “If you take Fives and Echo, and maybe Jesse—”

“No,” Agen says, unyielding. “No clones. I will manage.”

Rex and Ahsoka exchange glances, but after a moment, Ahsoka nods. “Force be with you, Master Kolar,” she says quietly.

“May the Force guide us both,” Agen returns, inclining his head to her, and then says to Rex, “Good luck, Captain. I will make sure the line holds.”

“We’ll move quickly,” Rex promises, grim.

Agen appreciates the concern. Knows it’s for the situation, but—Rex and Ahsoka are both clever, both able to prioritize the fight over their wariness. He appreciates that, as well.

“Take us low over the beach, but stay beyond the range of the droids,” he calls to the pilot, who flashes an acknowledgement back at him and brings them around. It’s low, but still a long drop, and Agen eyes the stretch of open land between the droid army and the town and breathes in. There’s water halfway up it, rising quickly, and that will make the footing treacherous, but—not impossible. The droids will have more trouble than he will, since they're heavier.

Mace once fought his way through a whole battalion of droids barehanded. Agen isn't about to let his brother padawan beat him in this of all things.

Curling his fingers around his lightsaber, he presses his thumb to the top switch, then tips his head to Ahsoka and Rex, gets a foot on the edge of the doorway, and leaps without another word. It’s a long drop, and Agen tumbles, twists, gathers himself—

Hits in a whirl of sand blown up by his redirected momentum, and immediately sweeps his lightsaber up, the green blade redirecting a volley of shots. Above him, the transport keeps moving, but there's no time to spare it a glance, no space for Agen to focus on anything except the advancing droids. The first is only a handful of paces away, and Agen lunges low and fast, carves it in half with a sweeping blow and rises, kicking the next as it raises its arm. A shot makes him duck, spin, surge upright with his blade leading, and two droids fall to pieces. A bolt skims past Agen's shoulder, and he sweeps a hand out, sends the droid who shot spinning back into the ranks with a clatter of metal.

But there are a hundred more behind it, and yet more emerging from the ocean. Agen rises, and flips his lightsaber around, and braces.

Meditation, Agen thinks, blocking another flurry of blaster shots. Motion as a path to mindfulness. This is straightforward, nothing but movement, and Agen has always done best with a clear path and an enemy in front of him.

Anakin called him the council’s attack dog. He wasn’t entirely incorrect.

Sword-work is simple, beautiful. Agen has always understood it in a way he will never understand people, and though T'ra once despaired of his ability as a diplomat, in this at least Agen has never doubted himself. The Force is motion and muscle and the space between Agen and his opponents, and no matter how many there are, he can see the patterns. Easier, out here in the Inner Rim, than it has been on Coruscant in decades, and Agen falls into it, spins through the droids and leaves parts behind him on the sand. There's water washing over his boots, cries from behind him, and he can't stop them all but he doesn’t need to. He isn't alone here, and the clones are at his back.

“General!” a voice shouts, loud and carrying over the sounds of blasters and metal and plasma. “On your left!”

Agen ducks a bolt, kicks the aqua droid’s knee joint out, and beheads it as it falls, then turns. There's a charge tumbling through the air, a concussion grenade blinking red, and Agen flicks out a hand, gives it momentum against the wind, and drops it right into a knot of droids as they emerge from the water as it detonates. There’s a whoop as it does, and Agen can't help a flicker of amusement as he recognizes the voice, the mind behind it. Hardcase, gleeful at the destruction, already reaching for another charge, and Agen cuts through another set of droids, then leaps backwards over one that tries to grab him. The sand is deeper here, the current stronger, and he almost loses his balance as the sand pulls from beneath his feet. A droid’s arm flashes up, and he twists sideways, feels metal slice across his temple in a wash of blood but doesn’t pause as he cuts through it.

There's another shout of warning, another detonator in the air, but Agen can't spare a thought to redirect it as he’s forced back three long steps, more droids closing in from his side to flank him. They're not trying to head for the town; instead, they're all focused on him, and Agen throws up a hand, redirecting a rain of blaster-bolts into the droids across from him, then lunges, slamming shoulder-first into the closest droid, ducking beneath it and slicing through it as he passes. A sweep of his blade destroys another three, and he topples another, flings it into one wall of them—

Staggers, an impact almost knocking him off his feet as his shoulder suddenly burns with pain.

Blaster, Agen thinks, and doesn’t pause. Forces muscles to work, flipping his blade around and stabbing behind him, then darting back. He can feel blood sliding down his skin, hot in the cool air, and his left arm answers haltingly when he tries to move it. But it answers, and he grits his teeth, catches another flash of movement in the air, and drags the grenade down right in front of him. Behind him, Hardcase shouts, and there are suddenly a dozen more airborne even as the first detonates. Agen catches the backwash of the concussive force, sways but doesn’t fall, and raises a hand. He catches the grenades, pulls them down and scatters them wide, and ducks as they blow, sending scrap metal flying.

In the same moment, there's a shout behind him, a sudden redoubling of blaster fire. The blue bolts fly past Agen, taking out an aqua droid just as it starts to raise its arm, another, another. It’s not complete destruction, but it’s certainly breathing room, and Agen appreciates it. He cuts down a droid that tries to march past him, turns his head to let a blaster bolt miss him, thrusts his lightsaber right through two that are close enough to allow it. They fall, and Agen splashes through shin-deep water as he advances, blocking shots and cutting down droids that feel endless, but—more manageable now.

Agen is up to his knees in water, pushing back almost all the way to the ocean, when there's a call from far closer. A blaster fires right behind him, then another, and with a cry a clone trooper slams the butt of his blaster into a droid, then flips it around and fires, and Agen feels a thrill of satisfaction as the line of troopers advances, something like what he feels when Eeth finds him on the battlefield, in the rare times they're assigned together. An instinctive thing, to fight with another Zabrak, to expect the same surge of that _prey-hunt-kill_ instinct that comes with adrenaline. No shakiness, no uncertainty the way it bleeds to in Humans, just joy and calm and _pleasure_.

Agen very rarely fights with other people this close. He’d forgotten the thrill of it.

“Sir!” Rex calls, and Agen catches sight of his pauldron a handful of meters away, Hardcase beside him with his rotary blaster and a bandolier of grenades across his chest. “Fighting’s getting heavier on the other side! The commander just called for backup!”

Agen traps instinct behind will, breathes through the certainty that all of their problems can be solved by tearing through the last few droids. “Pull back what men can be spared, but leave enough to hold this side,” he says, and raises a hand. “Hardcase, may I borrow another thermal detonator?”

Hardcase glances over in surprise, and Agen doesn’t need to see his grin to know it’s there. “Course, sir.” He pulls one loose, then asks, “Where do you want it?”

“Up,” Agen says, “Towards the trees.” He watches as Hardcase rocks back and throws it hard, shouting a warning, and narrows his eyes, catches the trajectory, and drags it sideways against the wind, dropping it right on top of the largest knot of droids that are still firing. The explosion takes them out with a roar, and Agen deactivates his lightsaber and turns, wading back up towards the town. Rex splashes up next to him, calling an order, and the squad that joined them on the transport starts pulling back, leaving the last few droids to the scouts and retreating up the beach.

“Casualties?” he asks, and Rex turns his head, like he’s listening to something.

“Two men,” he says. “Both from the advance posted here.”

Chagrians bury their dead at sea, but—Jedi and Mandalorians both burn their dead. Agen will have to see to arrangements for the lost troopers, and the night isn't over yet. He breathes out, nods curtly, and mounts the set of steps up into the town, pulling himself out of the water and offering Hardcase a hand up as he struggles with his heavy weapon. Hardcase takes it with a grunt of thanks, and Agen pulls him out of the tide, turning his head. He can hear the sound of the attack on the other side of the settlement, can feel the ebb and curl of fear and anger and cold precision, and instinct says it’s a hunt, a threat to be brought to the ground and dealt with.

This time, Agen doesn’t bother to strangle his instinct.

“Follow as you can,” he says, and picks up a run, swift through the darkened town, heading right for the padawan and the men in danger.

“The barriers are holding,” Rex reports, sometime after dawn, with the tide up to the tops of the two-story buildings and the last of the aqua droids consigned to scrap. He sounds exhausted, and there's an edge of something unhappy in his tone. “Be easier if they’d bother to make barriers that work in the air.”

“Chagrians base their lives around the tides,” Agen says, eyes on the handful of Chagrians he can see swimming through the edges of the town. The shimmer of the barriers makes the ocean shine strangely, and Agen can see fish outside it, schools of them. The droids haven’t managed to disrupt the fishing here yet, which is one of the reasons the civilians remain. He isn't sure if it’s a blessing.

“Yes, sir,” Rex says, flat.

Agen closes his eyes. Doesn’t elaborate, because it won't be welcome, but inclines his head and says, “There were no other attempts on nearby settlements?”

“No, sir. This is the only one that sits at the entrance to the plateau, though.”

“This was enough,” Ahsoka mutters, and then hisses. Kix, bandaging a gash in her arm, makes an apologetic sound, but a moment later he straightens, and Ahsoka pulls herself to her feet.

“It was,” Agen agrees grimly. “There are other mines in this area. That these are the only ones being targeted unsettles me.”

Ahsoka frowns, crossing her arms over her chest. “The other has a big city at the base, though,” she points out. “This one’s easier to get to.”

“You are correct,” Agen says, and when Ahsoka eyes him, he shakes his head. “A feeling, that is all, padawan. This campaign feels as if it bodes ill.”

“Yeah, I got that feeling too,” Ahsoka bites out, and Agen can feel the prickle of her indignation, her blame. Before he can address it, though, Rex stiffens, pulling himself upright, and Agen turns to see what’s caught his attention.

There's a Chagrian pulling herself out of the sea, up onto the roof of the building, and she straightens, shaking water off her blue skin. Her gaze immediately goes to Agen, and Agen meets her eyes, then inclines his head.

“Jedi,” she says jovially, approaching, and adds in Chagri, “Finally a male with horns!”

Agen snorts, but when she leans down, he tips his head to meet her, tapping his fingernails against the horns growing from the bottom of her lekku. She flicks his own horns lightly, smiling, and Agen offers in the same language, “Not as proud as Chagrian horns.”

“Better than much of the galaxy seems to do,” she says, amused, though she sobers slightly as she casts a glance at Rex and the ARC troopers behind him. “Our town is safe?”

“For now,” Agen says bluntly. “You are the mayor?”

“I am.” She steps back, settling her hands on her hips, and asks, “Are your men in need of care? We have little in the way of medicines that will work for Humans, but you are welcome to any of it you need.”

“It is appreciated,” Agen says, though Chagrians are nearly as sturdy as Zabraks, and even more so where radiation is concerned. Very little that’s safe for them will work on the clones. “I will extend the offer to our medics.” He weighs his next words for a moment, and then asks, “For burning, is there material available?”

The Chagrian stops, considering him for a moment. “Not for warmth,” she guesses.

Agen shakes his head. “We lost two men,” he says quietly. “Mandalorian tradition says the soul will not move on without a pyre for the body.”

Her dark eyes soften, and she inclines her head. “Honor should be paid to the fallen. There is dead wood we gather for carving, and I am sure my people would be happy to offer it in thanks.”

One issue seen to, and one of the most pressing. Agen bows to her, deep, and says gravely, “I am in your debt for this kindness, Mayor.”

She nods, accepting the thanks, and says, “I am Maava Rota, formerly one of the engineers at the mine, and mayor of this settlement. Do you know yet why our home is being targeted?”

Agen pauses, the question making him frown. “For the wealth in the mine itself, I had assumed,” he says, cautious.

Maava shakes her head, and her certainty is a sharp but steady thing. “The mine is close to closing. Already we are in talks to turn the land into another resort for visitors, since it has not produced sufficient amounts of ore in years. If the Separatists target our world for _this_ mine, they may have it.”

“We hadn’t heard that,” Agen says, because he read the reports, and he heard Rex speak as if the mine was still fully operational. But—if Maava is an engineer at the mine, she would know better than anyone.

Maava frowns, cocking her head. “Perhaps the information was lost,” she says. “Many layers for it to go through, and details sift out.”

It’s possible. The most likely explanation, even. But still, it doesn’t sit well with Agen, and he considers it for a long moment before inclining his head to Maava. “Thank you for the information. It is most valuable to our efforts.”

“Your efforts to save my home,” Maava counters, and glances back at the water, to where another Chagrian is surfacing. A male, but young—his horns are still short, and he looks as if he’s still growing. “The barriers will hold until low tide. Tomorrow, with the phase of the moons. We have no plans to leave, but should we see more droids on the sea floor, we will alert you.”

“Thank you.” Agen bows to her, then offers, “I am Jedi Master Agen Kolar. It is an honor to work alongside you.”

Maava gives him a sly smile. “It’s nice to finally see an off-worlder with horns,” she says. “Well met, Master Kolar.” Turning, she lifts a hand, then takes two running steps and dives back into the water, surfacing briefly beside the male and then diving down with him into one of the buildings. Agen watches them go, slightly unsettled, and then shakes his head and turns to Ahsoka.

“Did Knight Skywalker speak Chagri?” he asks.

Ahsoka shakes her head. “No one here had translation equipment,” she says, “and none of the locals speak Basic. Why? Is something wrong?”

“Potentially,” Agen says after a moment. “The mine is closing. Maava says they have not found much ore there in years.”

Ahsoka's eyes widen, and she pulls back. “No one told us that!” she protests. “But why are the droids coming after the town if they don’t want the mine?”

“That,” Agen says quietly, “is a very good question, padawan. And one I would like an answer to.”

She scowls at the ocean, rather than him, but a flicker-flare of defensiveness makes it clear where her thoughts are. “Anakin—Master Skywalker didn’t know about the mine. We were just trying to keep the town safe.”

“Yes,” Agen agrees. “I have faith that you were. The fact that the information was not transferred to those making decisions is…alarming.”

“The mine’s the only thing out here, sir,” Rex says quietly, and his frown is deep, but there's uncertainty twining through him. “Clankers have been trying to push through the town every time there’s a low tide for two weeks now.”

Agen casts a look out over the sea, to where the tops of the trees rise beyond the town, the saltwater jungle just emerging from the waves where it marches up towards the plateau. The town is the choke-point of this tidal zone; deep ocean rests on either side of it, and even on a well-tamed planet like Champala, deep ocean is to be feared. There are enough native sea-beasts in the area that even aqua droids would likely hesitate to brave the deep parts of the channels.

The mines are beyond the town, but—if the droids aren’t trying to reach them, they must be aiming for something else entirely. Something in the jungle, maybe, or on the plateau itself. Agen doesn’t like the edge of uncertainty that comes with the realization, and he breathes out, closing his eyes and thinking of the assault on the beach.

The droids only started to overwhelm him when they seemed to realize he was an obstacle to getting through. Getting through the town, getting past the troopers, getting _to_ something that Agen can't even begin to identify.

With a hum, a transport passes close, rustling the water, and Agen turns, raising a hand to block the gust of wind that comes with it. There are already several dozen troopers onboard, collected from the tops of the neighboring buildings, and as it hovers, Rex starts waving the last few men aboard. Before boarding himself, though, he pauses, glancing back at Agen like he’s waiting for permission, or maybe waiting for action.

There's a part of Agen that wants to head for the plateau, to investigate whether there's anything there the droids could want, but—the men are tired. Asking them to continue on after an interrupted night’s sleep and hours of battle would be unproductive, and Agen knows it. If he pauses, exercises a little patience and waits for the tides to retreat, searching the jungle will be simpler, and much smoother. They can leave a larger force in the town to guard it, and then take several squads out to canvas the area. It makes more sense to hold until low tide.

“Padawan?” Agen asks quietly.

Ahsoka gives him a veiled look, mouth pulling unhappily, but passes him, leaping up into the transport and slipping through to hover behind the pilots. Rex climbs up after her, raising his comm and addressing the camp in a low voice, and Agen curls his fingers around his lightsaber, brushing the second button. it’s been almost two years since Tan was killed on Geonosis, but—

There’s an echo, in his crystal. A natural imperfection that makes it sing with a different note within the lightsaber, and where it once drove Agen to distraction, it’s now a comfort like no other.

He presses his fingers over the hum of it, then squares his shoulders, ignores the ache, and leaps up into the transport, catching the edge of the doorway as it lifts away.

The sun is rising, blue-white against the green-tinted sky, streaks of azure and violet staining the clouds. Agen leans against the open side, watching it for a long moment before he closes his eyes. There will be a hundred thousand tasks to see to when he gets back to the camp, and he still needs to comm the Council. Things on Champala were never expected to go smoothly, but—

Agen has a very bad feeling about where this campaign is headed.


	4. Chapter 4

There are three messages of growing urgency on Agen’s comm when he finally has a chance to check it, almost an hour after dawn. The camp is awake and restless, though not all the much tenser than it seemed last night, and Agen is glad of it. He sees the wounded off to the medical tent, under the care of three medics who aren’t Kix, and then arranges for fuel for the pyres to be delivered with a Chagrian who comes to ask about it, fields two comms from Champala’s senator about the change of command, ignores a comm from the secretary of one of the sector’s admirals because the man is a pompous ass, and dispatches three squads with speeders to patrol the shallows around the edge of the plateau.

There's still more to do, and a strategy meeting he needs to have with Rex and Ahsoka, but by that time the fourth message is chiming insistently and the sun is getting higher, and Agen can't ignore the summons to the Council any longer. He comms back his acknowledgement of the meeting time, then heads for the command tent where it sits mostly empty at the head of the camp. Ahsoka and Rex are both elsewhere, but the two ARCs who accompanied him this morning are sitting a short ways from command, sharing a few pieces of fruit likely given to them by the locals. The one with the handprint on his breastplate is choking, face faintly green as he shoves a familiar white fruit at the other ARC, who’s laughing at him.

A little amused, Agen slows as he passes, watching as the ARC with the five tattooed on his temple picks up a small red berry, squinting at it suspiciously. He raises it to his mouth—

“It’s sour,” Agen says, and both ARCs startle hard. Before they can rise, Agen raises a hand to ward them off, and says, “Chagrians can primarily taste salt, and most of their food is very bland to Human palettes. Those berries are the equivalent of hot peppers to Humans, and used very sparingly.”

“Oh,” the tattooed one says, lowering it warily. “Thanks, sir. Some kids were passing these out. Should have known it was a trick.”

“No wonder the fruit was all salty, too,” the other ARC says, pulling a face.

“It is an ocean world,” Agen points out with a touch of humor. “There is an excess of salt in everything.”

“I wasn’t expecting it in the _food_ ,” the ARC says in protest, then pauses. “How do they taste for you, sir?”

“Very bland,” Agen allows. “But then, Zabraks eat food that is far spicier than most Humans can tolerate.”

The two ARCs exchange glances, and Agen can feel a spike of the emotion that Mace always labels _challenge accepted_ settle between them. He snorts, then says, “I have jerky from Iridonia in my belongings. You are welcome to some of it if you would like to test your ability to endure it.”

The tattooed one grins. “Thank you, sir,” he says. “I think you’ll find _we_ can handle just about anything.”

“It’s just spicy,” the other agrees, a spark in his eye that reminds Agen of Mace at his most stubborn. “Mandalorians eat spicy food, too.”

Before Agen can answer, his comm chimes again, and he grimaces, checking it to find a notice that the Council session is starting. “I will bring you some at the next mealtime,” he promises, and ducks into the command tent. There's a clone leaning over a screen, running diagnostics, and Agen makes for him—

“General Kolar!” a voice calls, and Agen stops, turns. Kix is just ducking through the hanging over the door, pulling his helmet off. He’s still fully armored, carrying his medkit, and he comes to attention for a bare second before he’s moving again. “General, Hardcase was saying you got hurt. I can see you in the medical tent, or here if you want—” He breaks off, eyes widening slightly as he takes Agen in, and says, “ _Sir_ ,” with a touch of horror rising.

Agen remembers, belatedly, that a droid grazed the side of his head, and he forgot to wash the blood off in the aftermath. With a grimace, he raises a hand, touching his cheek, and—well. At least the blood is mostly dry now.

“I am needed in a Council meeting that starts momentarily,” he says, and Kix hesitates, bites his lip.

“Sir, I was told you got hit by at least two blaster bolts,” he says. “With all due respect for the Council, they need to be seen to.”

Agen considers him for a moment, well aware that all Kix wants to do is help. Well aware that he _does_ need medical care, but also equally aware that he has a duty to the Council, especially now when things are in flux.

“I cannot miss this meeting,” he says, “and it cannot be delayed.” When Kix opens his mouth, though, Agen raises a hand, and says, “If you do not object to working on me while I am working, you are welcome to stay.”

Kix's eyes widen, and he hesitates, but then nods. “If you're sure it’s all right, sir,” he says, a little wary. “I'm—I'm just a private.”

Agen blinks, startled, and frowns. Torrent is a small company, but Kix serves as CMO of the entire 501st Legion. He should have been promoted a long time ago, given his duties. But—that will have to be addressed later, and for now Agen simply inclines his head.

“I do not object,” he says. “And no other member of the Council will, either. One moment.”

Kix nods, pulling his medkit off, and while he’s occupied Agen approaches the tech working on the computer system. The clone glances up as Agen nears, then comes to attention, and Agen inclines his head politely and asks, “Would it be possible to arrange a comm-call with the Jedi Council in this area?”

“Course, sir,” the tech says. “General Kenobi was with us for a few days, so the setup’s still ready to go. That cleared space at the end of the tent. Want it now?”

“Please.” Agen waits for Kix to join him, then heads for the open area, where eleven holo-projectors are set up. There's a stool as well, the same height as Obi-Wan’s chair in the Council chambers, and Agen sinks down onto it, undoing his sash and belt. Before he can shrug out of his tunics, though, a hand touches his shoulder, and Kix stops him.

“Be careful of your shoulder, General,” he says quietly, and eases the cloth off of Agen's shoulders instead, sliding it off his arms. Agen will admit it’s a relief to have the weight gone, and he lets out a breath, then pulls his hair forward so it’s no longer dragging through the wound. The one on his right arm is nothing but a graze, and Kix checks it briefly, then turns his attention on the deeper wound in Agen's left shoulder. In the same moment, there's a chime as the comm connects, and with a shimmer of blue light eleven holos take shape. Agen casts a quick look around the circle, assessing, and—it seems as if Eeth and Kit are still on assignment, as is Adi. The rest of the Councilors look to be present at the Temple, though—a sign, perhaps, of just how seriously they plan on taking the accusations against Anakin.

“Master Kolar?” Mace asks, frowning, and his gaze flickers to Kix, who’s very clearly in the field of the projector. Kix tenses tangibly, fingers fumbling slightly as eleven pairs of eyes fall on him, but before he feels forced to respond, Agen shakes his head.

“There was an attack that finished less than an hour ago,” he says. “I apologize for the delay.”

After a moment, Mace nods. “Your injuries?” he asks with concern.

Agen glances back, raising a brow at Kix, who casts him a startled glance. Pauses, then swallows, and says, “General Kolar will be all right, sirs. He got hit in the shoulder by a blaster, and it looks like another grazed him, and he has a head wound, but—he should be mostly fine by tomorrow.”

“By this afternoon,” Eeth says, faintly amused. “Master Kolar is hardy.”

“Spoken as one who has given Captain Lock too many heart attacks,” Agen retorts, and grimaces at the spread of something across his wound that stings fiercely.

Eeth snorts, unimpressed, but before he can respond, Yoda taps his stick against the base of his chair. “Glad we are that Master Kolar is well,” he says. “But an attack this soon, not something we expected. Your troops, Master Kolar?”

“We lost two of the advance guard,” Agen says quietly. “But we were able to hold the aqua droids back until high tide. However, the mayor of the settlement informed me that there is little ore remaining in these mines.”

“No ore?” Obi-Wan asks, frowning. “But I thought that was the Separatists’ objective in trying to take Champala. They've shown little interest in other Inner Rim planets.”

Agen shakes his head, the cooling slide of bacta across his shoulder making him exhale in relief. “The closing of the mine is widely known, enough so at least that the planetary government is aware of it. I cannot think why they would not inform us.”

“That is indeed concerning,” Adi says, and she leans back in her chair, tapping her fingers against the arm as she considers. “This means that we don’t know the leader of the Separatist forces there _or_ their aim.”

“I plan to take a squad to search the forest for anything else the droids be after,” Agen says. “The tide will likely have receded enough by this evening. Should I find anything, I will report it immediately.”

“Thank you,” Mace says gravely.

Ki-Adi-Mundi eyes Agen for a moment, then asks, “Have you contacted the admiral in the sector yet?”

“No,” Agen says, and refuses to elaborate.

Shaak makes a low sound of amusement, her gaze sliding to Mace, who pointedly looks away. “I will admit to some confusion,” she says mildly, “over how one of the most diplomatic Masters could raise two padawans so determined to avoid diplomacy at all costs.”

Agen scoffs, and at the same moment Mace snorts. “Cyslin Myr was only diplomatic when it suited her.”

“Yes, but T'ra Saa would be _most_ disappointed to hear you don’t consider her your Master.” Shaak tilts her head, and when Mace gives her a dark look, she hides a smile behind one hand.

“It is a waste of time,” Agen says brusquely. “And given the danger of the aqua droids to the citizens of Champala, I refuse to pander to a bureaucrat—”

“Master Kolar,” Adi says in exasperation, “in the eyes of the galaxy, you _are_ a bureaucrat.”

Agen closes his mouth, _deeply_ displeased with that assessment. The indignation isn't helped at all by the badly contained amusement Kix is radiating from behind him.

Kit laughs, soft, and leans forward, tresses sliding around his shoulders. “How is the state of the campaign?” he asks. “The 501st was pulled to Champala at the last moment, and we have received little in the way of reports since.”

“Undersupplied,” Agen says bluntly. “The equipment is not adjusted for use on a world that is mostly water, and a supply ship was lost en route. Basic medicines are running low, and there is no material for pyres for the lost beyond what the natives have supplied.”

Plo makes a sound of concern. “And the 501st is supplied for a Human Jedi,” he says. “You will need supplies for a Zabrak as well.”

“I can eat fish, for the most part,” Agen says. “Padawan Tano already has supplies for a carnivore’s diet, and with supplementation they should last us both until more supplies can reach us.”

“I will make arrangements,” Saesee offers quietly, and when Agen bows to him in thanks, he inclines his head in return.

There's a moment of silence, weighty, and then a breath. Mace glances at Agen, and says, “Master Saa contacted us several hours ago to report that she is on her way with Skywalker, and that he is not resisting her custody of him.”

Against Agen's skin, Kix's hands go still, and his emotions wash into startled confusion and then alarm.

“He is not resisting now,” Agen says quietly, and across from him, Obi-Wan closes his eyes, looking suddenly very tired.

“Now,” Ki-Adi-Mundi says, sharp. “He resisted at first?”

Agen inclines his head. “I told him I had the authority of the Council behind me in relieving him of his command,” he says, “and gave him several warnings.”

“Several,” Eeth echoes, raising a brow. “How many is _several_?”

Agen grimaces. “Five,” he admits. “And he refused to surrender his lightsaber even then. When I attempted to take it, he tried to resist.”

Even in the flickering blue of the holo, Obi-Wan is a little pale. “Resist,” he repeats, like he can't believe it. “How precisely did he resist, Master Kolar?”

“He drew his lightsaber,” Agen says, unflinching, “and struck at me, aiming to wound grievously.”

Depa makes a low, soft sound that’s somewhere between amusement and chagrin. “I assume he did not succeed.”

“As I said,” Agen returns, and drawing a weapon against another Jedi is never something to be proud of, but this isn't the first time he’s done so. “He tried.”

“Anakin was always going to resist,” Obi-Wan says. “I should have been sent—”

“No,” Yoda says, grave. “Remain here rightly you did, Master Kenobi. Consider these accusations, young Skywalker must. False, they may be, but assume one over the other, we must not.”

“I cannot think they are anything other than false,” Obi-Wan says firmly. “Anakin would not harm innocents.”

Agen pauses, considering what to say, what he _should_ say. Weighting the argument in one direction is unfair, particularly when Agen is already largely convinced of Anakin's guilt, but—

“Perhaps not the innocent,” he says, quiet. “However, when I informed him of the accusations, he was…very insistent that the Sand People were not people at all.”

The click of Plo's claw-covers against the arm of his chair is very, very loud in the silence.

Kix's breaths are rough, his hand still pressed flat to Agen's back as he kneels there frozen. It’s not anywhere close to how Agen meant to inform him, but—he has been informed now, and there's no changing that. The roil of dismay and indignation from him is sharp, almost gutting, and the feelings of the tech by the computer are little better, but Agen breathes through them and inclines his head, letting the fall of his hair hide some of his face. Shutting out other people’s emotions is very difficult when skin contact is involved, but—all it takes is concentration.

“He was reacting in anger,” he says quietly. “Which is hardly a crime in its own right. However, I do not know if the anger brought the truth to light or if it simply obscured his true thoughts on the matter.”

“He grew up on Tatooine,” Obi-Wan says, and his voice is even, even if his expression is tight. “The Tusken Raiders are a constant threat to the towns there. Some bias is to be expected.”

“Some,” Depa allows, and her frown looks so like Mace's that it’s almost startling. “The Jedi stand against speciesism of any type, however. Biases must be overcome if one is to be a good Jedi.”

“They must, but Anakin is still learning,” Obi-Wan retorts. “Master Windu, he only advanced from padawan a few short years ago—”

“Master Kenobi,” Yoda interrupts, and taps his stick harder against his chair. “Only reasonable, it is, to defend your padawan. But an adult, Skywalker is. And an adult Skywalker has been, hrm? Hear his story, we shall. Decide with the full story, we _must_.”

“Of course, Master Yoda,” Obi-Wan says, inclining his head. He sinks back in his chair, tucking his hands into the sleeves of his robe, and says nothing else.

After a long moment, Mace takes a breath. “Anything else to report in your encounter, Master Kolar?” he asks.

Agen shakes his head. “The 501st is very skilled,” he says. “We held the line this morning well. I fear we may be overrun soon, however. The Separatist forces were…numerous.”

“A familiar feeling,” Kit says wryly, his smile crooked. “I believe my forces may spare some extra equipment, if not a squad of SCUBA troopers. It will be something, at least.”

“Thank you, Master Fisto,” Agen says. “I will report to you on anything I uncover on Champala.”

“Do so,” Mace agrees, frowning. “I dislike this much effort being made to secure something beside the mines.” A pause, and he says, “Barring new information, our next meeting will be in two days, when Master Saa and Knight Skywalker arrive.”

One by one, the holos flicker out, and Agen leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and bowing his head. The cut on his temple pulls unpleasantly, and—

“My friend,” Eeth’s soft voice says. “Are you well? Brentaal was a difficult campaign.”

Agen glances up to find Eeth’s familiar figure still sitting to his left, and he grimaces. Against his shoulder, Kix sucks in a breath, then quickly starts moving again, spreading bacta across the blaster wound and deftly pressing a bandage over it.

“Well enough,” Agen allows. “And you? You have done much traveling these past few days.”

“Nothing strenuous,” Eeth says, mouth curving in a rueful smile. “And there was an old friend at the end of my journey. I should arrive back on Coruscant tonight.” He surveys Agen for a long moment, then says, “Trooper. May I ask your name?”

Kix almost fumbles, his surprise bright. “Me?” he asks, glancing up, and then says quickly, “Sorry, General. I'm Kix, sir.”

“Kix,” Eeth says, gentle. “Thank you for your care.”

Kix pauses, like he’s not sure how to respond, and then nods. “Of course, sir,” he says. “It’s my job.”

“Wrangling a Zabrak is never simple,” Eeth says, grave, even though his eyes are bright. “Captain Lock will attest to that.”

Agen snorts, but doesn’t bother to protest. “May the Force be with you,” he says, “and may we fight together soon.”

Eeth chuckles, though he sounds tired. “You have not had a clone commander to give grey hairs, my friend, and Lock has had to bear the brunt of both of us. This time might be different, however.”

“Perhaps,” Agen allows, though he rather doubts Rex will gain any grey hairs from his actions. Except, potentially, out of worry for what will happen to his battalion without a fully trained Jedi. “I hope for the day, my friend.”

“As do I.” Eeth touches a knuckle to his forehead, between his horns, then bows, and the holo winks out.

For a long, long minute, there's complete silence in the tent. Kix carefully, meticulously bandages Agen's shoulder, then moves on to his arm, pulling out his dermal mender and laying out more bacta. He’s silent, but Agen can feel his tension, the rapid pace of his thoughts. He’s hesitating, weighing the advantages of speaking against those of staying silent, and Agen waits him out, willing to let him decide how this will go.

Finally, quietly, Kix takes a breath, and the hum of the dermal mender starts up. The first touch of it to Agen's arm is cool, and over the low buzz Kix asks, “General, that was—you replaced General Skywalker? Permanently?”

“Knight Skywalker is facing charges of breaking the Order’s code of conduct,” Agen says. “Gravely, and in ways that are not acceptable for a Jedi. They are only charges, however, and not proven. The Council will investigate all aspects of this accusation.”

Kix swallows, but his hands are gentle as he pulls the mender away and then tapes the bandage on. “You should let me check your ribs again, General,” he says quietly. “The fighting might have jarred them.”

Agen doesn’t protest, just inclines his head. Doesn’t apologize, because he did his duty and he refuses to regret that, but doesn’t add anything else, either. He just waits as Kix runs a scanner over his torso, then sits back, frowning at the readings.

“I think they're all right,” he says. “But a biobed would get a better reading.”

“I will come by the medical tent later,” Agen promises. “After today’s wounded have been dealt with.”

“All right, sir,” Kix says, though he doesn’t sound happy about it. He shifts away, repacking his medkit with practiced speed, then snaps it shut and rises. Hesitates, like there’s something he wants to say, but then just nods to Agen and says, “Thank you, General Kolar.”

Agen isn't entirely sure what the thanks are for, but he nods in return, watching as Kix silently leaves the tent. The tech is still determinedly poking at the computer, trying very hard to pretend that he wasn’t listening in, and Agen leaves him to it, pulling his tunics up over his shoulders and belting them. His left shoulder still pulls uncomfortably, but it’s bearable. Less bearable is his need for a shower, but—the sonics will likely be taken up by the troops at this hour of the morning. Agen doesn’t want to intrude, either as a simple commanding officer or the Jedi who deposed their general, and he sighs, ducking out into the camp.

He needs to meditate. There's little to be done until this evening, when the tides start to recede, and katas and meditation will settle him before then. And if he does them on the shore, beyond the camp, he can swim in the ocean rather than shower and clean himself well enough.

It’s not just his own day he needs to be concerned with, though. Even beyond the 501st, he has a padawan to care for now, to teach at least for a short time, and even though ideally he would be able to give Ahsoka more time to adjust, they're going to be fighting together very soon. It’s best that they adapt to each other in training, rather than tripping over each other in combat. He’ll need to let Rex know where he intends to be, as well, just in case something were to happen.

Ahsoka, at least, is clear in the Force, a beacon among candle flames. The clone troopers are all their own lights, individual and many, but a connection to the Force means that Ahsoka burns brightest. Agen follows the call of her Force signature through the camp, pausing to check in with the captains and lieutenants he comes across, and finds most of them in decent spirits, if a little tense. That’s understandable in light of the droid attacks, though, and Agen passes through them without lingering too long.

By the feel of it, Ahsoka is near the far edge of the camp, tucked back behind a handful of tents that are set particularly close. Agen skirts them, casting a look out at the sea as he does, wary for any hint of metal beneath the waves. He can't see any, but—

The aqua droids almost took Kamino before they could be noticed. Agen will do everything he can to keep Champala from being the same.

There are low voices as he rounds the tents, the stack of crates behind them. Three voices, all of them familiar, and Agen raises a brow at the sound of Obi-Wan’s voice, tired but tense, the sharp lift of Ahsoka's in answer, the quieter, rougher sound of Rex's beneath them both. He steps forward, about to offer a greeting—

“Anakin _wouldn’t_!” Ahsoka says, loud, insistent. “Someone’s framing him!”

“I know, padawan,” Obi-Wan says, quiet. “But the Council won't listen without a full trial, and I am very concerned about what could happen in the meantime. Anakin has great potential, and great influence. I fear this could be a plot from the Sith, to remove him from the Jedi.”

“Has to be something we can do, General,” Rex says, short. “If you need us—”

“The people of Champala need you at this moment, I'm afraid,” Obi-Wan says. “I’ll do what I can from my end, but—listen to what Master Kolar says. I feel that the Council isn't telling me everything, seeing as I was Anakin's Master.”

“We will,” Ahsoka promises, fierce. “He’s a swamp-sucking—”

“Ahsoka,” Obi-Wan interrupts. “Master Kolar is a respected member of the Council, and I'm sure he’s doing what he thinks is right. Just—be wary.”

Oh, Agen thinks, and closes his eyes. Well. It’s an understandable reaction, from Obi-Wan’s point of view. He would likely have the same one, if Tan were in Anakin's place.

“Yes, sir,” Rex says, and pauses. “General Skywalker called him the Council’s attack dog.”

“He does have a reputation in the Temple that can be…unfortunate,” Obi-Wan allows after a moment. “I have no doubt he will do his best to keep you safe, but—be careful regardless. I do not know what kind of plot this is, but I find I dislike it greatly.”

“Yes, Master,” Ahsoka says, and Agen quietly, carefully turns away, making his way back into the main part of the camp.

It’s an understandable reaction. They don’t want to believe Anakin could be responsible for such things, so they're looking for alternatives. But—

Well. It stings, faintly, to overhear such things. Agen has only ever done his duty and kept to the Order’s laws and codes. They’ve shaped him, given him purpose, and to have that dismissed with the name he’s called by those who stand against the Order is…uncomfortable.

This is a reaction driven by pain, Agen thinks, and closes his eyes. To be expected, given the place Anakin holds in all of their lives. It’s harder to see if a thing is justice when immersed too deeply in it.

He’ll give Ahsoka more time. Another few hours, at least. They can begin their training on the mission this evening, as she likely isn't in a place to listen to anything Agen says at this moment.

Agen breathes in, breathes out. He needs to bathe, and meditate, and run through his katas. And—

He’ll need to find somewhere else to sleep, too. It’s very likely that he won't be welcomed into the medical tent as anything but a patient, after this.


	5. Chapter 5

“Did the general come in?” Kix asks the room at large, distracted as he tries to figure out if it’s the biobed malfunctioning or his scanner.

“Which one?” Stitch jokes, neck-deep in patient files and clearly unhappy about it. “Since we apparently have two now.”

Kix opens his mouth to clarify, then stops short, something cold turning in his chest. They _don’t_ have two generals, they only have one, and he hasn’t been able to figure out _why_. Most of the company doesn’t even seem to know that General Skywalker is gone.

“Kolar,” he manages after a moment, and the uncertainty likely just makes his unease feel even worse. Kix isn't entirely certain how to feel. He’d been…honored, that Agen let him stay during a Council meeting. That’s normally the type of thing reserved for Marshal Commander Cody, or Commander Ponds. And then—

Kix takes a breath, puts the scanner down. “He said he’d come in after we dealt with the casualties,” he says evenly, and _he_ doesn’t remember seeing Agen enter the medical tent, but he was also preoccupied with hunting down Jesse, who’d managed to dislocate his shoulder and then decided not to tell Kix. Hardcase had to be the one to let Kix know, because Hardcase is the only reasonable member of Torrent besides Kix himself, and that’s not saying a lot.

“I didn’t see him,” Ty says, and shrugs. “But you know how Jedi are. If there's a problem, we’ll probably get to treat him when he collapses after a battle and not a second earlier.”

Kix opens his mouth to say that Agen isn't like that, but—well. His position as CMO only saves him from so much teasing, and if Stitch and Ty hear Kix waxing lyrical about a Jedi who not only allows but _requests_ medical treatment, they're never going to let it go.

“Right,” he says, even though the word sits wrong in his mouth. Agen _wasn’t_ like that. And—learning his Master was a Healer went a long way towards explaining just how respectful he was. Kix isn't used to that. Honestly, it’s almost more unsettling than General Skywalker being called away to argue against unspecified charges back on Coruscant. “I should go and…make sure. Just in case.”

“You really love beating yourself up, don’t you,” Stitch says, judgmental, but Kix just rolls his eyes and grabs for his medkit.

“Anyone mention seeing him?” he asks, instead of asking himself what the hell he’s doing wandering out to go hunt down a Jedi. He’s already been lucky that Agen didn’t take offense to Kix treating him like a new Knight, or Kix _falling_ on him, or Kix insisting on seeing to his injuries to the point of sitting in on a Council meeting. But—

He said he’d come in. It’s not like Kix is _pushing_. He’s just holding Agen to his word.

Ty rolls his eyes. “The edge of the camp closest to the settlement, apparently,” he says. “Some of the troopers from Captain Jester’s squad were getting all fluttery about catching a glimpse of him training or something.”

“Spoken like someone who would _absolutely_ get fluttery watching a Jedi train—”

“Shut _up_ —”

Kix snorts, leaving them to their argument as he ducks out into the noon sun. The clouds that were so thick yesterday are still heavy on the horizon, but for the moment the blue-white sun is bright enough to be blinding and warm enough to burn some of the dampness away, and Kix is grateful. He shades his eyes for a moment, checking if any more patients are coming, but the fighting this morning wasn’t nearly as heavy as it could have been, and the casualties were thankfully light, too.

It could have been a lot worse. If Agen hadn’t cleared the beach before the droids could hit the settlement, if the squads had been trapped fighting the aqua droids in the maze of the town with the water rising—

Kix breathes out, settles himself, makes himself stop imagining the death toll if that had happened. It didn’t, and Agen took a ridiculous risk with his cracked ribs, leaping down right in front of the oncoming mass of droids, but he’d survived. Gotten injured, given Kix a _heart attack_ , but he’d survived.

Kix kind of thought he wasn’t going to, when Agen had first leapt from the transport alone and unaided, right into oncoming fire.

Heavy footsteps peel off from one of the side avenues to fall in with him, and without looking over, Kix warns, “This doesn’t look like resting that shoulder.”

Jesse gives him a rueful smile. “Fives put more bacta on it?” he offers, which is honestly better than Kix was expecting. “Who are you looking for? Did Captain Rex escape the medical tent again?”

“If Rex got hurt, no one mentioned it to me,” Kix says with a frown, trying to remember if Rex was moving any differently earlier. Not that Kix really got close enough to see, this morning or last night. Normally Rex seeks him out at night, but—last night he didn’t. Which was probably good. If he’d gotten the bedrolls confused in the dark and tried to crawl into Agen's—well. It would have been _funny_ , but. Probably not for Rex.

Kix shuts out the trace of guilty humor, glancing over at Jesse. He seems to be moving fine, and Kix can't remember Rex showing any of the normal signs of hiding something that was causing him pain, so Kix feels mildly more settled saying, “I'm looking for the—for General Kolar.”

“Oh,” Jesse says, sounding a little startled. When Kix gives him a curious look, though, he raises his hands in self-defense and says, “You're not normally that pushy about the generals.”

“He promised to come in once the medical tent emptied out a little,” Kix says, and pauses. Worries over what to say for a moment, because Jesse isn't an ARC trooper, isn't any sort of officer, and spreading gossip isn't something Kix tries to do—

“People are saying that General Kolar's taking over the legion,” Jesse says before Kix can even start to make a decision. “And that’s why General Skywalker wasn’t part of the force this morning.”

Kix doesn’t wince. If Agen hasn’t announced it, he’s not sure he should. Jesse is his best friend, but…that’s something that should come from their CO.

“It’s weird for General Skywalker not to lead an attack,” he says, noncommittal.

“Yeah, but at least the commander was there,” Jesse says, more cheerfully. He hooks his thumbs in his belt, and then adds, “And General Kolar's impressive.”

Kix swallows, thinking of bare dark skin in the medical tent, the green glow of a lightsaber on the battlefield. He was busy sticking to Rex as they pushed forward through the town, but—he caught a glimpse of Agen's stand on the battlefield. One Jedi against a whole host of clankers, and General Skywalker is _good_ , one of the best, but.

Kix has never seen anyone move like that before.

“He’s…really good,” he manages, and Jesse smirks at him, clearly able to sense what Kix isn't saying.

“Really?” he asks. “The _general_? I didn’t think you’d go for someone that violent.”

Kix blinks, then frowns. “Violent?” he asks, surprised. Agen was gentle when he caught Kix, with the other Zabrak general on the Council.

Jesse gives him a look. “He’s a Zabrak,” he says. “You know how they get.”

Kix opens his mouth, closes it. That’s not… _always_ true, but it’s true often enough. Zabraks are usually mercenaries, or soldiers, or fighters of some kind. Ventress being a Zabrak tracks, and Kix has heard of plenty of Zabrak bounty hunters, as well. They're definitely not peaceful people, for the most part.

Then again, neither are the clones, so Kix isn't entirely sure that’s a point Jesse should be trying to make.

“General Kolar saved me from breaking my neck,” he says quietly, even though he’d been intending to take that bit of information with him to the grave. “Yesterday. He was—really gentle.”

Jesse pauses, opens his mouth, and then straightens sharply, only to wince even as he comes to attention. “Captain!”

“Jesse,” Rex says, faintly amused, as he approaches. His gaze flickers to Kix, and his smile warms. Kix smiles back, though he’s not about to try anything else in public. It’s already confusing enough having a casual thing with Rex when he’s a private and CMO at the same time, and Rex is both a captain and in command of the legion as a whole. Telling other people would just gum things up even more.

Instead, he switches his gaze to Jesse, who’s rubbing his shoulder sheepishly, and says, “Jesse, you should go and actually let someone look at that.”

“But you already looked at it,” Jesse protests.

“I did,” Kix agrees, mild. “And you promised to lie down and let the bacta work in exchange for me not dragging you back to the med-tent. But since you're _not_ lying down, I assume—”

“I'm going, I'm going,” Jesse mutters, and nods awkwardly to Rex. “Captain.”

“Rest that shoulder,” Rex says, unimpressed, and Jesse pulls a face but gives Kix a quick wave as he ducks down another path.

There's a moment of silence as they both watch him go, and then Rex asks, “Odds that he’s going to go wrestle with Fives and Echo?”

Kix rolls his eyes, not able to fight a grin. “Higher than I want to think about,” he admits. “You're okay, Captain?”

“Couple of bruises, that’s all,” Rex says, and he’s a terrible liar, so Kix can at least take him at face value. He eyes Kix's medkit, then raises a brow. “Hunting down someone besides Jesse this time?”

“I don’t _hunt_ people down,” Kix protests, flushing a little, but when Rex gives him a look, he sighs and says, “General Kolar. I heard he was over on the edge of the camp.”

“He is,” Rex says, and his voice is a touch tighter, a little sharper, but he takes a breath and offers more evenly, “Hardcase said he was meditating by Jester’s tent.”

Kix knows where that is, since he helped Chopper and Sketch back there after their squad ran headlong into some aqua droids on patrol. “Thanks,” he says, and turns that way. It’s a little surprising when Rex falls in with him, and Kix shoots him a questioning look, only to get a grimace in return.

“The general wanted a briefing on the situation at dawn,” he says. “But since we were neck-deep in droids at dawn, I figured I’d see when he wants to reschedule it to.”

That makes sense, and Kix sighs, running a hand over his short hair. It’s been a long day, and it’s only midmorning at this point. “I thought there were going to be a lot more casualties,” he admits. “Every time we’ve tried to push the aqua droids back, it’s been…bad.”

Rex doesn’t answer for a long moment, silent as they make their way past the edge of the camp. The plateau the camp is built on, a landing strip hastily repurposed for habitation, ends a few meters away in a sharp ledge, but ahead of them there's a portion that slopes towards the water. The hard-packed earth turns to sand, washed up by the tide, and there's a place where the locals swim up when they need to meet with the officers. Kix has dipped his toes in the water a few times, watched Tup and Hardcase and a couple of the local kids splash around, but it’s not a place he usually goes when he has so many other things to do. He squints, now, against the sun, and tries to make out whether there's a figure there, but can't manage to see anything.

And then, quiet, Rex asks, “Have you heard about General Skywalker?”

Kix winces. He _wants_ to answer, wants to say yes, but—Agen let him sit in on a _Council_ meeting. Kix has no idea how secret that sort of thing is supposed to be, and he hesitates, trying to figure out what to say.

Before he has to come up with an answer, though, there's a splash. After so many weeks fighting aqua droids, that sound is drilled into Kix's nightmares, and he jerks, automatically grabbing for the blaster he isn't carrying. In the same moment, Rex takes a quick half-step in front of him, hands going right for his pistols, and—

A dark hand grabs the edge of the ledge where the plateau falls away, and with a surge of lean muscle and scars and dotted tattoos Agen hauls himself up and out of the water. He’s stripped down to his underwear, skin shining, hair tangled around his shoulders and sheeting down his back as it streams with water, and just for an instant Kix can't breathe at _all_.

And then, desperately, the medic in his brain claws its way past the stunned, senseless _desire_ that’s focused on getting hands on Agen's skin, and Kix inhales, steps forward on autopilot more than anything.

“General Kolar,” he says, dismayed. “You're supposed to keep your ribs wrapped.”

Agen glances up, then rises smoothly, and Kix _doesn’t_ let his gaze slide down to where a tiny bit of pale cloth is water-soaked and almost see-through.

He really, really wants to, though.

“I was just washing myself off,” Agen says, leaning down to pick up his clothes. The knobs of his spine are clear, and Kix's fingers itch to _touch_. “The sonics were full, and this seemed the best alternative.” He straightens, tossing his hair back over his shoulder, and digs through his robe’s pockets for a moment before he comes up with a small wooden brush. Perfectly unselfconscious, he sinks down on the edge of the plateau, crossing his legs beneath himself and starting to brush out his hair. “Was there something that required my presence, Captain?”

There's a long, careful pause, and then Rex takes a deliberate step up beside Kix. “Sorry to disturb you, sir, but I thought you might want to reschedule our briefing.”

Agen inclines his head, still working the brush through his hair. There aren’t a lot of clones who have long hair, and none with hair as long as Agen's; Kix finds he can't quite look away. “Thank you, Captain. That would be best.” He stops for a moment, then breathes out, and says, “If you would assemble the commanders and captains as soon as it’s convenient, I will address them regarding my presence here.”

“Yes, sir,” Rex says, and it’s cool enough that Kix flicks him a glance, slightly startled by the tone. Rex doesn’t meet his eyes; his gaze is fixed forward, shoulders straight, posture perfect like he’s being assessed. It’s…not what Kix would have expected, because Agen seems like he’s been careful with the clones, didn’t take any reckless risks with their lives on the battlefield. Rex isn't _quite_ hostile, but. He’s definitely not friendly.

“Thank you,” Agen says, and after a few more strokes he set the brush aside, reaches for the strips of cloth on top of his robes. His hands are deft as he separates out two locks of hair, wraps them in the pale cloth, and then slips that little pink flower into the tie on one side. Kix doesn’t quite know why he’s so caught by it, but his eyes keep straying to it, small and delicate and still undamaged even after the fight on the beach.

“General,” he says quietly, and when Agen glances up at him, simply waiting, he swallows. “I should wrap your ribs, sir. I brought more bacta patches.”

“Thank you, Kix,” Agen says gravely, and Kix wastes no time swinging his medkit to the ground and grabbing for patches and bandages. He’s honestly still a little astonished that he doesn’t have to badger, or even ask more than once. Agen waits patiently as he gathers everything, then lets Kix shift him as needed, pulling his hair out of the way and raising his arms when Kix directs.

It’s…shocking. Kix has treated more Jedi than most medics over the course of the war, since the 501st Legion works with so many other generals and General Skywalker tends to be reckless, and the _only_ Jedi who’s agreed to medical treatment as easily as Agen is Kit Fisto. Which is, Kix will admit, probably because General Fisto was distracted by flirting with Commander Cody at the time.

“Captain,” Agen says over his head. “Maava Rota informed me that the tides should have shifted enough by this afternoon to allow us access to the salt forest. I intend to take a team and assess what is there that the droids could be after. I’ll request that Padawan Tano accompany me, but I wished to ask if there was a squad usually assigned to accompany your Jedi.”

“Yes, sir. My personal squad.” Rex shifts, just a little, but Kix glances over, watching his face carefully. He looks…wary. “ARC troopers Echo and Fives usually too, when they're stationed here.”

Agen inclines his head. “I submitted a request that all transfers for them be postponed, given their familiarity with the company and the current uncertainty from the change in leadership,” he says, and as Kix tightens the wrap one last time, fastens it, and sits back, he lets out a careful breath. Lowers his arms, then twists carefully, bends—

“General,” Kix says, alarmed, and catches his shoulder. “If you strain your ribs, they're _going_ to break.”

Agen grimaces faintly, but straightens without protest. “I require some level of flexibility or my abilities will be hampered,” he says. “I will be fine with this, thank you, Kix.”

“Yes, sir,” Kix says, a little unhappily. If he had his way, Agen would be lying in a biobed or an actual bed until his ribs healed, but—the war isn't exactly conducive to that much rest, particularly for a general. “Just be careful twisting, at least for the next few days. The bacta patches will take a little time.”

“I will,” Agen allows. “Master Tiin informed me that he has dispatched a first round of supplies and new equipment, and it should arrive within a few days. There will be at least one bone-mender meant for high-humidity worlds aboard.”

Relief is a bright wash through Kix's chest, and he can't help but grin. “Thanks, sir. I appreciate it.”

Agen doesn’t quite smile, but his expression is slightly softer as he inclines his head, then rises. He pulls on his breeches, then his robes, careful of his ribs, and—

It’s a small thing, maybe, but he _listened_ , and that makes something in Kix's chest that’s been tight and worried for months now feel just a tiny bit looser.

Picking up his lightsaber, wrist bracers, and cloak, Agen straightens. Kix gets to his feet as well, casting a quick glance at Agen's wrists, but the bacta seems to have done its job—the raw skin is unbroken, no longer swelling, and it doesn’t look quite as much like someone took sandpaper to Agen's wrists anymore.

“Sir, if you’ll accompany me to the command tent, I have the reports on the recent Sep movement,” Rex says.

Agen inclines his head, buckling on the bracers. “Has there been any word from the government about the mine?” he asks.

Rex shakes his head. “Not yet, General. There's a delay—seems like all the information has to be filtered through the Chagrians.”

For a moment, Agen considers that. “Most Chagrians speak only their local dialects,” he says. “Even in the government. Having to pass through translators likely slows the information considerably. I will speak with the mayor and see if she will be willing to route such transmissions to me.”

Rex's mouth tightens, but he nods shortly. “Thank you, sir.”

“Isn't it rare for outsiders to speak Chagri?” Kix asks, snapping his kit closed and pulling it on as he rises. “How do you know it, General?”

Agen snorts softly, leading the way back into the camp. Kix follows, and—Agen's clothes cling to his damp skin in a way Jedi robes don’t normally, and it’s a little hard to look away. “My Master encouraged me to learn languages as a padawan.”

From the sound of it, there's more to the story, but he isn't saying, and after a moment Kix lets the statement stand. He glances over at Rex, who still looks faintly stiff in a way Kix isn't used to, and says, “She sounds like a good Master.”

“Master T'ra is one of the wisest beings in the Order,” Agen says, but not with pride. Bluntly, simply, like he’s stating an uncontestable fact. It makes Kix smile a little, but—

Rex looks like Agen just turned around and spat on his armor, though he hides it quickly, and Kix feels realization kick into something sharp and cold. Rex is—wary. But more than that, he’s _angry_ , and given that General Skywalker just got arrested, given how Rex looks up to him, that isn't incredibly surprising, even if it’s jarring.

Rex doesn’t like Agen. He doesn’t trust him. Kix probably should have seen it earlier.

A little unsettled, Kix drops his gaze, focuses on following Agen towards the command center. He thinks of Agen's meeting with the Council, his words about warning General Skywalker five times to obey orders and surrender his lightsaber, only for General Skywalker not to. Thinks about General Skywalker physically attacking a commanding officer, because that’s what Council members _are_ , and feels uncertainty turn in the pit of his stomach.

It’s only Agen's word about what happened. Kix is only hearing one side of the story.

Decided, he swallows, then says, “General Kolar, do you need me?”

Agen pauses at an intersection between two paths, glancing back. “Not at the moment, thank you, Kix. You are part of the captain’s squad?”

For the mission, because that’s close, and Kix shouldn’t look forward to that sort of thing, but at the very least it’s a distraction from waiting for the aqua droids to hit a nearby settlement. Relieved, Kix nods, and says, “I’ll be ready, sir.”

Agen inclines his head, almost a bow, and keeps walking. Kix watches him, then glances at Rex, who grimaces but tries for a half-smile at him.

“Later,” Rex promises, and hurries to catch up. He falls in three steps behind Agen, even though there’s space to walk abreast, and Agen flicks him a glance that’s entirely unreadable but doesn’t comment.

Kix has something of a bad feeling about this.

Tension rising, Kix breathes out, then scrubs a hand over his buzzed hair, grimacing to himself. Rex is loyal. Rex has _always_ been loyal. To the GAR, to his _vode_ , to the general. This—this probably isn't settling well for him at _all_ , and Kix needs to catch him alone and make sure he’s okay. But until then…

Turning on his heel, Kix picks up a quick pace towards the tent where Rex's squad is quartered. Normally Kix would be sharing the same tent, but with the lack of space, he gave up his spot to Hardcase, Dogma, and Tup, since he’s needed in the med-tent more often than not anyway. And even before that, things were tight, since Echo and Fives are stationed here for now.

Maybe for the near future, if what Agen said is true, and Kix _knows_ that Echo and Fives are both skilled ARCs, that they can take care of themselves, but having them close is a relief. They're always going to be the shinies he looked after in the wake of Rishi Station, and he always feels better when they're close enough for him to look after personally.

When he finally makes his way to the squad’s tent, that same relief curls in his chest at the sight of both of them sitting in the sun, their armor spread out around them as they clean it. Fives is talking, telling a story by the motion of his hands with the cleaning cloth, and Kix can't fight a small smile as Echo rolls his eyes and scoffs. Instantly, Fives throws the cleaning cloth at his face, and Echo grabs for the polish—

“I hope you're not going to throw valuable supplies at each other,” Kix says mildly, and Echo and Fives both freeze instantly.

“Uh,” Fives says, caught.

“Of course not,” Echo says, and quickly starts dabbing cleaner on his armor. In a patch that’s already clean, Kix observes, and raises a brow. “What’s wrong, Kix? Here to fistfight Tup for your bedroll again?”

“I wouldn’t fistfight Tup for anything,” Kix says, offended. This is Tup's first deployment, and Dogma's as well. “He and Dogma are practically shinies. I don’t fight shinies.”

“Even if they deserve it?” Fives mutters, rolling his eyes, and Kix nudges him lightly with his boot.

“Be nice,” he says, and sits down, sliding his medkit off. Hesitates, trying to figure out how to say what he wants to, and can't decide how best to phrase it. “I—you went with the captain to meet General Kolar when he landed, right?”

“Yeah,” Echo says without hesitation. “General Kolar and General Saa.” He’s watching Kix carefully, and Kix gives him a rueful smile.

“General Skywalker's really gone, then,” he says, and something in the line of Echo’s shoulders eases. He and Fives exchange looks, a quick shared glance that’s full of something Kix can't read, and then Fives nods.

“For the moment,” he says. “The generals made it clear that this could all be some sort of frame-up, but General Skywalker still has to face the Council and answer questions.”

Kix pauses again, worrying at a scratch on his medkit with his thumb. It seems—logical. Like what any trooper would have to do if they were suspected of a crime. But at the same time, the idea of General Skywalker getting dragged away from Torrent Company, the idea that he’s gone and a new general just stepped in to lead them is…jarring.

“Is it true that General Skywalker attacked General Kolar?” he asks quietly, and Echo breathes out.

“Yeah,” he says. “When General Kolar asked him to give up his lightsaber.”

Fives snorts, leaning back on his hands. “Not that it _worked_.”

That makes Echo huff, too, and the curl of his mouth is something like reluctant amusement. “Probably good. Didn’t look like that was a training setting on his lightsaber.”

Kix's stomach turns just at the _idea_ of drawing a weapon on a superior officer making a legitimate request, and he winces. “I thought,” he starts, curling his fingers against his pack, and then stops. He’s not sure _what_ he thought. General Skywalker isn't exactly agreeable and obedient to the Council’s orders at the best of times, and with this—

“Did they say what he was accused of?” he asks, and isn't even sure he wants to know.

Echo and Fives exchange another look, deliberate, unreadable. “Yeah,” Fives says. “Massacring a village of Tusken Raiders on Tatooine. Every last person in it, it sounds like.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhanger warning for this chapter.

“Not even a _warning_ , _vod_?” Blackout asks, almost before the hem of Kolar's robe is all the way past the door.

Rex doesn’t look at him, keeps his eyes on the nine other captains and the double handful of sergeants and lieutenants in the tent. There's a general air of unease, a couple of murmurs; Kolar left to take a comm call from the system’s admiral, and Rex _knows_ that he had to, that comms like that come at the most inconvenient times, but it still feels a little like a hit and run to have him relay the news of his takeover and vanish.

“Because I had so much time to share gossip this morning, with all the clankers shooting at me,” Rex says, dry, and Blackout snorts, raising his hands in surrender. The line of his mouth is tight, though, and Rex breathes out, then leans in to brace their shoulders together.

“General Kenobi thinks it’s a frame-up,” he says. “Someone trying to get General Skywalker kicked out of the Order.”

Blackout grimaces. “We’re the ones who get all the hard missions,” he says. “Toss in someone new, who hasn’t led a whole legion before…”

Yeah. That’s about what Rex is scared of. He hasn’t had a chance to put a word out with the other divisions yet, to pick up whatever chatter there is about Kolar, but—Rex _does_ know that he’s never had long-term control of any of the divisions. Jedi don’t pick their commands; they're assigned, just like troopers, but—

It stinks like a month-dead bantha, that someone with so little active experience would land control of one of the GAR’s most active units. It stinks even more that someone thinks _Anakin_ could murder innocents. Not just one person, but the whole Council. Anakin is reckless, and hardheaded, but—he treats them like people. Civilians don’t, and senators _definitely_ don’t, but Anakin always has.

“Did you hear what the charges were?” Blackout asks, and then, before Rex can answer, “Odd that it’s the Order dealing with it and not someone from Judicial.”

“Kolar said it happened on Tatooine. Murder,” Rex says after a moment. “Republic laws don’t apply there, since it’s in Hutt space.”

With a thoughtful sound, Blackout crosses his arms over his chest, eyes still on the doorway. “Murder? Guess I can see why the Order’s up in arms about it. They have a lot of codes about not killing the unarmed, right? Or people who have surrendered, or killing out of anger. Commander Tano was telling me.”

“Someone framed him,” Rex says grimly. “General Skywalker wouldn’t.”

There's a pause, careful, precise. When Rex glances over, frowning, Blackout is watching him with a raised brow.

“Really, _vod_?” he asks. “You think _General Skywalker_ wouldn’t kill an unarmed man?”

Rex opens his mouth to deny it, then stops short. Anakin is ruthless enough to, but—only enemies. Only when he’s protecting someone. Surely the Order should agree that that’s necessary. “He wouldn’t do what they accused him of.”

Blackout snorts softly. “General Skywalker's a great man, and I'm proud to serve under him. But…him maybe not lining up with the Jedi Code? I could see it.”

“Still doesn’t mean they should have _replaced_ him in the middle of a campaign,” Rex says, and—he’s tired. He _knows_ that Anakin will be found innocent, but until then, he’s got another general to deal with, a company to look out for, and a commander to keep from doing anything reckless. Ahsoka was all for taking a ship and heading for Coruscant to help Anakin investigate, but General Kenobi managed to talk her out of it, thankfully.

“Yeah,” Blackout says on a sigh. “Like the clankers here needed more help picking us off.”

Rex snorts, unamused, but when Blackout offers him an arm, he thumps their vambraces together lightly and steps away. “I should brief Kolar,” he says, pulling away from the tent wall. The last attempt got interrupted by an exploding speeder in the mechanical bay, and then the captains and commanders were assembled and waiting, and—

Well. Rex is maybe not the most enthusiastic about the whole idea to begin with.

“Luck, _vod_ ,” Blackout says, and Rex grimaces, but nods his thanks. He follows Kolar's path out of the tent, and—it’s tempting to put his helmet back on, to hide his face, because the odds of Rex managing to hear someone insist on unworkable ideas and still keep his expression neutral are less than zero. And there _will_ be unworkable ideas, he’s sure; Kolar hasn’t led a division this large before, and Champala is a tricky campaign even for a company as experienced as Torrent.

Rex just wants to keep his men alive, and Champala has already made that hard.

When he checks Ahsoka's tent, there's no sign of the general, though, and Rex frowns a little, ducks back out with a flicker of confusion. There's no other immediately obvious spot for a general to take a private comm, and Rex wonders with resignation if he’s going to have to chase Kolar all around the camp—

A whirl of pale cloth catches his eye, and he jerks his head up, reaching for a blaster automatically.

High up, perched on top of a stack of crates, is Kolar, sitting with his legs crossed under him. The edge of his long tunic hangs over the edge, but he doesn’t seem to notice, all of his attention on the tiny blue figure rising from his comm. He has his right hand braced in front of him, but he’s making notes at the same time, deft and quick, and Rex can't remember if most Zabraks are left-handed, but it’s something to plan for. An adjustment, when Rex has already had to make more than enough of those, and he breathes out heavily, resettles his helmet under his arm, and eyes the stack of crates. Three-high, and not unmanageable, but—inconvenient.

Well, it’s not like Rex was expecting anything different.

Still, it’s not the worst place to get out of the way of the camp, and Rex eyes the space around them, then sets his bucket down on a lower crate and hooks his fingers over the edge of the lowest block in the stack. It reminds him a little of the training course on Kamino, and he snorts to himself, hauls and swings up a foot and immediately grabs for the next ledge, scaling the side in a handful of seconds. Rex as a trainee would probably have been jealous, Rex thinks, mostly amused at himself despite the knot of worry in his stomach, and he pulls himself up onto the very top of the stack.

Kolar flicks him a glance, tipping his head faintly in acknowledgement, even as he says, “I am aware, Admiral.”

The system admiral makes a skeptical sound. “My ships have no time to play delivery service, Master Kolar,” he says. “The Separatist engagement at the edge of the sector is increasing, and any breaks in our line will be disastrous.”

“Yes, Admiral,” Kolar says, like it isn't _supplies_ they're talking about. Like Torrent isn't going to suffer if those supplies are even a little delayed. “We respect your efforts to guard the edges of the sector. However, the 501st requires more supplies.”

“Then you will have to find another way to get them,” the admiral retorts. “I require all hands at their posts, and I will not break formation. The protection of the Inner Rim depends on my fleet, and I am already stretched thin. Good day.”

The transmission winks out.

No supplies, Rex thinks with a sinking feeling. Torrent’s already running low, and if they have to keep cutting back, it’ not going to be good for anyone.

Anakin would have argued. Anakin would have taken a ship and launched a mission to go get the supplies himself, against orders and despite everything. Risky, maybe, but—at least then Torrent would have what it needed.

Kolar doesn’t try to comm the admiral again, doesn’t even make a sound of frustration. Just frowns down at his comm for a long moment, then snaps it off, closes his notes, and sits back, looking considering.

“Captain,” he says after a moment. “Is there something you require?”

It feels a little like a dismissal, and Rex tries not to react, even though he wants to. Breathes in, and—he’s annoyed at everything the general does, is taking everything in the worst possible way, but—

Kriff, all he wants is things to go back to normal. At least then the rest of Torrent wasn’t in the line of fire.

“Sorry to disturb you, sir,” he says, as even as he can make it. “You wanted a briefing about the situation.”

Kolar inclines his head, shifting a little to face Rex and reopening his notes. Some kind of shorthand, Rex thinks, flicking a glance at the faint glow of the projected screen, but he can't make out the code.

“Now seems to be the best time,” Kolar allows, and glances up at Rex, waiting. Doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t prompt, and Rex had expected him to at least outline what he wanted to know, but Kolar just looks content to wait him out. Rex hesitates, but reaches for the projector he brought and drops it between them, activating it with a touch. In a whirl of light, a map of the area spreads out over the top of the crate, and Rex resizes it, then centers it.

“Most of the attacks have been coming from here,” he says, touching the spot on the western edge of the landmass that’s seen most of the fighting. “We’re done sweeps of the ocean beyond it, but scans haven’t picked up any submerged ships, and we haven’t been able to find where the droids are coming from.”

Kolar frowns, reaching out to trace a section of deep sea. “There are ocean trenches here that would be deep enough to hide more than one ship,” he says, considering. “Deep enough to hide from our scans, potentially, if they were entirely automated.”

Rex had been thinking the same thing, but he snorts. “No SCUBA troopers of underwater ships to help us find out,” he says. “Command dropped us here last minute when the raids started. They’ve been happening almost every day sometimes, but two weeks ago there was a break of four days with no activity. Hasn’t happened again since.”

Long fingers turn the map, and Kolar draws a line from the trench to the settlement. It’s not direct, and there are better paths the clankers could take, with less interference. Rex can see that realization settle over Kolar, and he taps the glowing edge of the settlement, then straightens again.

“Maava Rota mentioned that the areas here and here are the territory of some of the planet’s larger aquatic carnivores,” he says, tracing two lines along the sides of the plateau, then following them down almost to the settlement. “The Chagrians built their settlement here because there’s access to shallower waters not marked by the beasts. A potential reason the droids are using the same approach.”

That kind of information would have been helpful weeks ago, Rex thinks with a grimace. He and Anakin hadn’t been able to figure out why the droids were using that particular approach instead of going through the forest around the sides, and not being able to communicate with the locals has apparently been making their lives harder than necessary. “Makes sense, sir. The droids never seem to want to stop in the settlement, but they also aren’t shy about trying to burn it down behind them.”

Kolar inclines his head, and a rising breeze swirls his hair around him. Inconveniently long for someone fighting in close quarters, Rex thinks privately, but he’s not about to tell a general how they should dress.

“A four-day lapse,” Kolar says, thoughtful. “Do you have a tide chart, Captain?”

Rex blinks. “Yes, sir,” he allows after a moment, and pulls up the file on the projector, letting it flicker into view above the map. He’s looked at it before, and if there's significance in the four-day gap, he can't see it. “Here. These were the days without activity.”

Not high tide, not low tide. The only difference Rex can see is that the recorded water levels were slightly higher than average, but not enough to even fall outside the normal limits. Kolar apparently doesn’t see anything out of the ordinary, either, because he tips his head and glances back at the map.

“I will ask Maava Rota if any of those days have significance to her,” he says. “But there have been no other similar gaps?”

Rex shakes his head. “Most we’ve gone without an attack is thirty-nine hours, excluding those days,” he says. “I've been trying to double up advance guards in the settlement, but there's a resort on this plateau here that’s been hit three times, and the governor wants us to keep that a priority.” He recenters the map on the other plateau, almost two hours’ travel to the east, and says, “The governor had to work something out with the locals there—no troop camps, so any forces set to guard the resort have to be rotated out, and it’s cutting into manpower.”

“Inconvenient,” Kolar says, which is an understatement, and it makes Rex want to tell him precisely how it’s putting all of his men in danger to have to play politics like this, but—he bites his tongue.

There's a flicker of a glance, brief and careful, and then Kolar's gaze drops back to the map. Rex stiffens a little, not sure what gave him away, but Kolar doesn’t say anything about it, just asks, “Only two attacks? The reports make it seem like the resort is facing the same constant assault.”

Rex shakes his head, and carefully doesn’t tell him to try reading the reports more thoroughly. “One or two scouting parties, but otherwise just the two, sir.”

“Hm.” Kolar surveys the map for another moment, the flicks it back to the closer plateau, studying the approaches. “Have squads scouted the mines yet?”

“We’ve scouted around it,” Rex says, a little wary of the question and a potential dressing-down that could follow. “General Skywalker took a ship to check other approaches and the top of the plateau for possible vulnerabilities, but the Chagrians wouldn’t let us close to the mines, and with the language barrier, we couldn’t insist.”

Kolar inclines his head, silent for a moment. “I believe,” he says after a long moment, “that we can pull back the forces guarding the other approaches to the plateau, given the lack of attempt and the fact that they are firmly in the sea beasts’ territory. Increasing the force at the settlement will keep both the locals and the troops safer.”

Alarm flickers, and it takes effort for Rex not to immediately snap a protest at the general. He bites his tongue hard, clenching his hands against his thighs, and takes a breath. “Sir,” he says, as evenly as he’s able, “with all due respect, thinning the ranks at any of the access points puts those men in danger if there _is_ an attack. I understand the strategy of wanting to consolidate resources, but if we miss something, those men will die.”

Kolar looks at him, silent, expressionless. There's a long, long moment where he says absolutely nothing, and something like desperation prickles down the back of Rex's neck, desperation or fury or despair. He braces himself for orders, for disregard—

“Very well, Captain,” Kolar says calmly. “I will defer to your judgement.” He adds something to his notes, then closes them, inclines his head to Rex, and turns, sliding off the top of the crates. There's a yelp as he lands, and Rex leans over just in time to see Kolar catch Dogma by the elbow, steadying him and catching the stack of parts he’s hauling with a touch. He murmurs something Rex can't hear, and Dogma's eyes go wide.

“It’s fine, General!” he says loudly. “Sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to get in your way.”

Another murmur, and Kolar bows to him, then turns, disappearing into the command tent. Rex watches him vanish, then lets out an aggravated breath and flops back, rubbing his hands over his face. He doesn’t _like_ that easy surrender. Wouldn’t have liked an argument, either, but Kolar just…giving in? It’s unsettling. Rex would have expected someone that people call an attack dog to be a little more aggressive in defending his ideas.

Part of it, potentially, is that Rex was bracing for a fight. Not that he was going to disobey orders, if Kolar gave them, but—he would have made his case right up until they _were_ orders. Not getting that fight is almost as frustrating as actually having it would be—Rex feels like he’s been strung up and left waiting for the inevitable drop.

Anakin won't have arrived on Coruscant yet. Another two days, assuming they travel as fast as possible, before he’s in front of the Order, and then—something. Rex isn't sure how a trial in the Council is supposed to go, but he’s worried. Anakin isn't the strictest about following orders at the best of times, and Kolar—

Rex thinks of that moment in front of the ship, the blue glow of Kolar's blade beneath Anakin's chin. Kolar is a Jedi, just like Anakin; he’s not supposed to turn on his own. It’s not right.

 _Attack dog_ , Rex thinks, and wonders what a _Jedi_ has to do to get a nickname like that.

He’s just a clone, well outside the Order. The odds that they're going to let him be a part of any of the trial are slim, but—it itches beneath Rex's skin, what Blackout said. Anakin's strong, and he _is_ ruthless, and Rex has seen him make choices that give him pause, but—

They survive it. Usually. More than some divisions. Anakin breaks the rules for _them_ , when he has to.

Rex grimaces, breathes out. It’s not true. None of it is. Anakin was angry, and what he said about the Tusken Raiders—it’s understandable, given where he grew up. If the Jedi hold that against him—but they're supposed to be understanding, wise. They won't. They _can't_.

And then, sharp, from below, Kolar says, “ _Captain_.”

Rex jolts, something unpleasant lurching in his stomach as he wrenches upright. “Yes, sir!” he says, too loud, with a sick sinking in his gut like he’s about to be taken to task for something. Maybe Kolar found out about the call to Obi-Wan, he thinks, and alarm flares because that’s not _treason_ but it’s probably something close.

But rather than coming for Rex's rank with fury in his eyes, Kolar is shoving through the tent flap, and his eyes aren’t on Rex at all, are fixed somewhere else like he’s looking past the tents around them.

“Hurry,” Kolar says. “Something is—”

A scream shatters the air.

“—wrong,” Kolar finishes, even as Rex hits the ground, and he takes off at a run, headed for the edge of camp near where the mechanics have set up. Rex almost trips, gets his feet under himself, and follows, already drawing his pistols. There's alarm beating high and fast in his throat, and all he can think of is aqua droids at the edges of camp, attacking directly, and if this is the start of a new strategy they're going to be absolutely karked.

More shouts are rising, close now, and Kolar hits the edge of a bank of speeders parked at the end of the avenue and simply leaps them, one long, lithe twist that carries him over the rows and drops him right on the edge of the plateau. Rex ducks around, picks up speed as he hears the familiar hum of a lightsaber igniting, and hears Ahsoka's cry from behind him. He slides around the edge of the speeders, raising his blasters—

No droids. There's not so much as a single clanker.

Rex almost falters, almost wavers. But then, like a shock, he catches sight of Dogma on the ground, Dogma on his back and struggling, trying to sink his fingers into duracrete to keep himself from being dragged any further towards the sea, with something dark wrapped around his legs. Rex can't make it out, can't get his brain to process the sight—

Dogma shouts, kicking, thrashing, and Rex fires without having to think any further, aiming for darkness where it slides into the sea. Shadow, his brain wants to say, shadow with substance, but that doesn’t make _sense_. There's volume to it, weight, and it recoils from the blaster bolt, slides away, but it drags Dogma with it, hauls him back towards the water as he cries out.

And then, in a stroke of brilliant green, Kolar whirls in, sweeps his lightsaber down and sheers right through the tangle of dark strands, with more severed bits twisting and writhing behind. There's a hiss like scorched flesh, a tremor through the very earth they're standing on, and the strands recoil. Kolar lashes out with a hand, and the severed pieces fling themselves away from Dogma, splashing back into the ocean. Instantly, Kolar grabs Dogma, hauls him to his feet and shoves him back towards the camp, then twists. He steps to the side just as another tangle of shadowy tendrils erupts from the ocean, swarming up over the side of the plateau like a nest of snakes and lunging for him. The grab just misses, and Kolar sweeps his blade down, cuts through the darkness again—

Goes down, landing hard on his back as his feet are wrenched out from under him.

Not darkness this time, Rex realizes with a flicker of grim horror, aims and fires and watches a twist of what looks like perfectly clear water spasm as his shot hits. He can't tell if it’s the same thing looking different or another creature entirely, though, and he runs, grabs Kolar as he thrashes and snatches for his throat, where the faintest shimmer against his skin gives away the presence of another tendril. Rex jerks it free, and it’s slick beneath his glove, slippery and twisty as it grabs for him, but Rex flings it away, hears it hit the ground and shoots for the sound.

There's a ragged breath, a hand against his _kama_. Kolar lunges past him, low and impossibly quick, and the stab of his blade burns through a much thicker twist of dark strands, makes the thing retreat in a rush. Rex aims around him, fires at another dark strand just oozing over the edge, and feels something grab his foot, jerk—

Kolar slices through it, kicks off his boots and drops his robe, and then takes three running steps and dives into the sea.

“Master Kolar!” Ahsoka shouts, and Rex doesn’t even have to think. He lunges sideways to catch her as she races past, holding her back before she can follow Kolar.

“Commander, wait!” he says desperately. “You can't—”

“He's going to _drown_!” Ahsoka protests. “Lightsabers don’t work underwater unless you have special crystals, and he was assigned suddenly, he won't—”

Shock fractures through Rex's chest, alongside something like fear, and he takes two steps towards the edge before he can help himself, then freezes. Ahsoka isn't trying to run anymore; she's clinging to his armor, frozen, horrified, and Kolar _still_ isn't surfacing. Dragged down, Rex thinks, and here to replace Anakin or not, he's still a Jedi. The thought of him dying, of him being killed trying to save them from something strange, deadly, unknown—Rex hates it. He _hates_ it, and he can't change it, and it's not like it's _unexpected_ that a general would do something like that but–

Ahsoka cries out, jolting like an electric shock just ran through her, and this time Rex can't grab her fast enough. She eels right out of his grip, throws herself forward, and dives in after Kolar.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone following this or another of my works, the update schedule is currently:  
> 26 January - efface the footprints in the sands  
> 31 January - these soldiers have sun-fired bones  
> 2 February - The 7 Habits of Highly Effective Time-Travelers  
> 7 February - and love is a call to arms  
> 9 February - somewhere i have never traveled, gladly beyond  
> 14 February - these soldiers have sun-fired bones  
> 16 February - trade your heart for bones to know  
> 21 February - and love is a call to arms  
> 23 February - you will open your wounds (and make them a garden)  
> 28 February - these soldiers have sun-fired bones  
> 2 March - efface the footprints in the sands

The thing beneath the waves is _hungry_.

Agen can feel it as soon as he’s in the water, a surge and a _weight_ and a darkness that isn't _dark_ as much as it is entirely foreign. There's a tremor of awareness as Agen dives, a recognition in the mind that folds around his, vast and impossible to grip. It sees him, it feels him, and Agen feels that in return like a small ground creature seeing the shadow of a hawk fall over it.

 _Fear_ is the first response. _Anger_ is the second. Neither of them helps, and Agen sets them aside, reaches out with determination instead, with _protect_ sharp in his chest. The seabed here is deep, dark for all the water is warm, but Agen can see a shift of shadows that are deeper still, trailing away into the depths. Not a whole creature here to attack them, just a _piece_ , Agen thinks, and it’s grim in his chest as he hits the sea floor, sees the tangle.

 _What do you want_? he asks, a blur of impression and feeling more than actual words.

There's no answer. Dark threads like streamers of shadow whirl up, too smooth and quick to seem natural, and Agen brings his lightsaber up and slashes through them, dives down into the darkness and throws up a hand, sending more scattering. They shift as he watches, bleeding clear, all but invisible in the dimness, and—

Predator, Agen recognizes. A predator adapting, because it’s meant to hunt.

He feels the impact of a thread, the way it twists around his arm, and snarls. Cuts down, cleaving through the translucent limbs, and then reaches for the most accessible mind nearby. Ahsoka is all alarm and fear and desperation, but Agen doesn’t have time to soothe her; he shoves the realization at her, the warning in case he doesn’t make it back to the surface—

A limb goes tight around his throat, and Agen snarls silently. He grabs it, wrenches it away but doesn’t let go, and dives down deeper, following the path of it. There are more, a knot of the threads all bound together, splitting off, and the nexus is as tall as Agen, organic and pulsing with nerves and intent, but it’s a vulnerability. Agen cuts through another grasping clutch of limbs, kicks another away, and his lungs are burning. If he can't get close enough, he won't last long.

And then, with a splash, with a ripple of determination-defiance-desperation, another body arrows through the water right towards them. Ahsoka has her lightsaber out, her teeth bared, and she crashes into a tangle of limbs half a moment before they can drag Agen down. Her green blade cuts viciously back and forth, severing them, and she looks up at Agen like she’s braced for a reprimand.

Padawans are too brave for their own good, Agen thinks, and gives her a nod of thanks. Feels her start of relief and pleasure, and pulls a thermal detonator from the pouch on his belt, showing it to her. Immediately, Ahsoka nods determinedly, then dives right, cutting through more of the threads and forcing them back. Agen takes the left, pushing closer, slicing through limbs that get thicker and more aggressive as he nears. They overwhelm him, surge up until they're thicker around him and Ahsoka than the seaweed, and Agen grits his teeth, throws out a hand and knocks them all back. Sees the opening, and shoves a warning at Ahsoka even as he hits the button on the detonator—

Something slams into his side, and Agen loses all of his breath on a cry as his vision goes black for an instant. The grenade slips from his fingers, but Agen snatches it with the Force, sends it rocketing forward, and feels thin arms grab him, hooking around his chest. Ahsoka drags him up towards the surface as the grenade detonates, and the shockwave hits hard, flings them both back right into the side of the plateau. It’s all Agen can do to twist, cushion her before she can hit stone as he takes the brunt of the blow, and even then it’s still too hard. Ahsoka gasps, chokes on seawater, and Agen gets an arm around her in turn, kicks off the stone and sends them arrowing back up towards the surface.

He turns his head, as he does, and catches a glimpse of that half-collapsed net of thought and feeling being dragged back into the depths by a thick thread that disappears into the distance.

There's no time to linger on the realization; they break the surface, and Agen sucks in a desperate breath as Ahsoka coughs up saltwater, and he pushes up as best he can, gets a hand on the edge of the plateau. Ahsoka grabs for it too, but she can't get a solid grip, sinks below the surface with a splash. Hauling her back above the water, Agen boosts her up, and she grabs for stone, clambers up and then turns, and Agen gladly takes the hand she offers him and lets her help pull him up as well. They all but collapse to the stone, breathing hard, and Agen clips his lightsaber to his belt and sinks back on his heels, shoving the sodden strands of his hair back.

“Are you hurt, padawan?” he asks with concern.

Ahsoka shakes her head, leaning forward and bracing her arms on her knees as she tries to catch her breath. “I'm fine, Master Kolar,” she says, just as heavy, running steps sound.

“Commander!” Rex says, and the feel of him is true worry as he drops to his knees beside Ahsoka, the concern clear on his face. He looks her over, then lets out a breath of obvious relief and looks at Agen, and it’s almost startling that that worry doesn’t waver. “General, are you hurt?”

“Yes,” Ahsoka says before Agen can answer, and when Rex gives her an alarmed look, she raises her hands. “Not me, Master Kolar. It hit him just before he could throw the thermal detonator.”

“Thermal detonator,” Rex repeats, and snorts. He meets Agen's eyes and nods once, like recognition. “That do it, sir?”

Agen shakes his head. “It was one piece of a larger organism,” he says. “A secondary brain, I think. The remainder of it retreated.”

Rex's eyes widen, and a moment later he grimaces. “Expect more?” he asks grimly.

“Likely,” Agen agrees, and straightens carefully. His whole side is one solid ache, but he pushes it down, tries to think of what comes next. “On our way to the salt forests, we should stop in the settlement. I wish to ask Maava Rota if she knows of such creatures, and how best to fight them.”

There's a careful pause. “Any chance it was one of the beasts from the nearby territories?” Rex asks warily.

Immediately, Agen shakes his head. “Those are simply very large fish,” he says. “This one was…different.”

“Hungry,” Ahsoka says with a shiver, and wraps her arms around herself. Agen raises a hand, calling his dropped cloak to himself with a flicker of will, and when he offers it to her, Ahsoka takes it gladly. She wraps herself in it completely, and Agen feels that same lurch in his chest, a memory of Tan close to the surface and just waiting for the chance to rise. But—

It’s a good memory. Tan used to do the same thing when he was cold. And if they were alone, or if he was particularly tired, he would curl into Agen's side, fall asleep on him, and even now Agen remembers the weight of his dreams, the steady faith that nothing would happen as long as Agen stayed close.

“You fought well,” Agen says, reaching out to tug the hood up over her montrals. She’s small, and his own horns mean the hood is larger than some, so it fits well. “Thank you for your help, padawan.”

Ahsoka smiles a little, tugging the cloak a bit tighter at her throat. “I've never tried to fight underwater before,” she admits. “It’s…confusing.”

Rex opens his mouth, then pauses, and when it looks like he isn't going to say anything, Agen inclines his head. “The echolocation your montrals use will work underwater, once you adjust,” he says. “Shaak Ti is particularly skilled at it, if I remember correctly. We can see if she has any suggestions, if you would like.”

“Master Ti?” Ahsoka asks, brightening, and then freezes. Her eyes flicker from Agen to Rex, and she bites her lip.

Ah, Agen thinks, and doesn’t let himself have a reaction. Logical. But—

He pushes to his feet, not quite able to hide a wince, and steps back. “Thank you again, Padawan Tano,” he says, folding his hands together and bowing shallowly, then stepping away. Rex is rising as well, looking wary, but Agen simply nods to him and turns, collecting his boots and heading back over to the edge. There's no lingering sign of the creature, but he can sense echoes of its hunger, its intent. Quieter, diffuse, and he follows them, trails them across the stone to where the severed threads he cut from the creature are still wriggling.

Their motions are slowing, Agen thinks grimly, but they're moving even now. From proximity, maybe, or some sort of independence once cut free. He doesn’t like either possibility, honestly.

“Sir,” Rex says from behind him, and that buried thread of anger is still there, as it was through their whole meeting earlier. Agen closes his eyes, and—he hurts. He needs to make a trip to medical, and worry about shoring up their defenses against something unknown in the water, and it’s selfish but he doesn’t want to have to stand in the middle of Rex's dislike and keep himself still and accepting the whole time.

But.

Agen is a Jedi, and he knew this task wouldn’t be pleasant, and he accepted it anyway. He opens his eyes, rises, and asks, “Yes, Captain?”

“If the camp is under attack, leaving it to go to the salt forests might be risky,” Rex says, carefully even, deliberately bland. Something flickers in his expression, and his eyes flicker to where Dogma is helping drag an unconscious trooper back from the edge of the plateau. That edge of worry battles with the anger, with relief and a touch of exhaustion that invokes a curl of deep sympathy in Agen, and Rex doesn’t quite waver, but the urge is there. “We don’t even know what this thing is.”

Agen considers his answer for a moment. He’s not used to having to explain all of his actions, not to people who aren’t Jedi, and saying _instinct tells me to go_ likely won't help Rex understand anything.

“No,” Ahsoka says, from just behind them, and when Agen turns to face her, a little startled, she meets his eyes with a touch of uncertainty in her gaze, but also a wealth of stubbornness. “Master Kolar is right. The Force wants us to go into the forests. And besides, the droids aren’t going to stop just because something else is attacking us, too.”

Agen inclines his head to her. “The padawan is correct,” he says gravely. “You have been camped here for weeks already, and that this creature would choose now to attack—I dislike the delay when the camp has been very obvious in its location the whole time.”

Rex grimaces, setting his hands on his blasters and glancing back at the sea. “We’ve never—” he starts, then stops himself. “Yes, sir. The squad can be ready to leave in twenty minutes.”

Agen opens his mouth to agree, then pauses. Doesn’t make a face, because T'ra used to shake him by the horns when he did that and he learned his lesson, but—the thought is still there. “You have an hour, Captain. I need to visit medical.”

Rex doesn’t respond for a moment, and Agen can't quite sort through the wash of emotion that rises, prickly and sharp, or the confusion that undercuts it. After a second, though, he asks, “Do you need help getting there, sir?”

“No, but thank you, Captain,” Agen returns. His ribs ache, and his back stings, but—he can walk, and beyond that, Rex dislikes him. Skin contact only makes emotions clearer, and Agen is selfish enough not to want to have to feel all of Rex's distaste for him from up close. “Padawan Tano, do you need aid?”

Ahsoka shakes her head, still wrapped in his cloak. “I'm fine, Master Kolar,” she says again. “Just a couple of bruises from the rocks.”

Agen can sense it’s the truth, so he inclines his head and lets her be. “I will see you in an hour outside the command tent. Excuse me.”

“Yes, sir.” Rex steps back, and as soon as Agen turns he’s heading for Ahsoka, worry rising to replace the sharpness. Agen is glad that they seem so close, and he glances back once, takes in the sight of Rex leaning over Ahsoka as she bats at him, and allows himself a flicker of quiet warmth to blunt some of the frustrations of the day as he makes his way back into the camp.

The rest of his attention is trained on the ocean, though, waiting for some edge of that hungry animalistic mind to surface, and Agen can't help the tension that winds wires tight around his bones, full of a deep foreboding.

He doesn’t like this at all.

When Agen pushes into the medical tent, it’s to the sight of an empty room, only one of the beds occupied. A clone with the Republic’s symbol tattooed across his face and his shaved head is sprawled out on a cot, one arm draped over his eyes as he sleeps, and Agen flicks a glance at him, checking for obvious wounds. He can't see any, and lets himself look away. There's an unfamiliar presence in the back room, also asleep, and Kix is restocking a shelf, the top part of his armor stripped off to leave him in just his blacks.

“Kix?” Agen says quietly, not wanting to disturb anyone, and Kix startles and spins.

“General!” he says, not nearly as quiet, but the two sleeping clones don’t even stir. He looks Agen over, then blinks, and asks with bemusement, “I—did you go swimming again, sir?”

“There was an attack,” Agen says. “By a creature in the water.”

Kix's eyes widen, and in an instant he’s across the room, one hand on Agen's elbow pulling him the rest of the way into the tent and straight towards a biobed. “Stitch got called out, but I thought it was an accident,” he says, distressed. “Are you—obviously you're hurt or you wouldn’t be here, but—”

“There was one trooper knocked out,” Agen says gently, and Kix flicks a glance up at him, then pushes him onto the biobed and immediately reaches for his belt and sash. Agen lets him undo both without protest. “I believe one trooper might have bruises around his ankle, but Tano and I drove the creature off before it could seriously injure anyone.”

“Anyone except you,” Kix says. It’s soft more than accusing, and as the sash falls away, he eases Agen's robe off, the wet cloth heavy and hard to maneuver. The feeling of it sliding away almost makes Agen hiss, but he contains the reaction, pulling his arms free and then reaching up. His ribs protest before he even has his hand halfway up, though, and Kix catches his wrist.

“Sorry, sir,” he says. “Just wait a minute.” His grip loosens, slides away, and Agen catches his breath at the feeling of hands gathering up his hair, drawing it forward over his shoulder. It’s—strange. Not a touch he’s had in months, and it makes him close his eyes, the faint pull of the wet strands reminding him of things that are likely inappropriate right now. Eeth was the last one to touch his hair like that.

Then Kix's sharp hiss cuts through the memory, and when his hands go back to Agen's bare skin, undoing the wrap around his ribs, there’s a flicker-flash of horror that surges for an instant before it’s crushed down and replaced with focus as the bandages fall away. “Sir, these—you're _bleeding_. You should have called me instead of walking all the way here.”

Agen hadn’t realized he was, and he tries to think what could have caused it. The stone edge of the plateau, potentially, when he and Ahsoka hit it. He hadn’t felt skin break, but he’d been more than a little distracted in the moment.

“Forgive me,” he says, tipping his head forward as cool fingers slide up the back of his neck. He doesn’t shiver, even though he wants to. “I didn’t realize.”

Kix makes a quietly unhappy sound, stepping away for a moment. He’s back an instant later, and the splay of his hand over Agen's skin is steadying. “I have to disinfect these,” he says, and then, more lightly, “You haven’t even been here for a full rotation yet and you’ve already had to see me three times. It’s going to be a good thing I set you up a bedroll in the back, at this rate.”

Agen snorts, though the words are an unpleasant reminder that he needs to find somewhere else to sleep. Along the edge of the plateau, maybe; that way he can sense the creature more quickly if it returns. “I will try to space my visits out more in the future.”

“I would rather you didn’t have to visit at all,” Kix says, distracted, and Agen pauses, not entirely sure of the impetus behind those words. Kix is only thinking about the disinfectant, the wounds, but—some part of Agen, already attuned to Rex's dislike, wonders if he means them in the same way Rex would. He can't find the words to answer, and Kix doesn’t seem to notice, the brush of his fingers tracing a long stripe down Agen's back. “This laceration is shallow, but it’s wide. What happened?”

“I believe I hit the edge of the plateau too hard,” Agen says. He twists his fingers in his own hair, closing his eyes, and breathes, steady and slow. The urge to overreact is a poor one, and unsuited to a Jedi. He needs to focus on things as they are, rather than speculation and conjecture.

“I’ll have to check your ribs again, too,” Kix mutters, mostly to himself, and straightens. “These need bacta gel, and the rest of your back should get some as well—”

Agen shakes his head, the reminder that he has to deal with the matter of supplies as well settling with the weight of frustration. “Save what you can,” he says. “Treat the wounds, but leave the bruises.”

There's a moment of unhappy silence, but then Kix says quietly, “Yes, sir. If you're sure.”

“I am.” Agen listens to him moving around, then returning, and the smear of bacta across one of the cuts instantly eases the pain. Agen closes his eyes, deliberately relaxing his muscles, and breathes out, judging stiffness. He’ll likely be extremely sore in a few hours, but—manageable. If he’s careful with his exercises tomorrow, he should be able to work through it. Tearing a muscle is less of a concern for a Zabrak than it would be for a Human, thankfully.

There's a flicker of wariness behind him, a slow, careful shift. Kix's hands frame another wound across Agen's lower back, then gently smear bacta over it. Kix feels tense, just a little, like he’s braced for something, and Agen waits for it quietly, not sure what he plans to say, but—set as if to take a blow. Rex and Kix are likely friends, or at the very least respect each other, and Rex's opinion of him is understandable, will likely spread now that everyone knows precisely why Agen is here. It’s…unfortunate but logical.

“Can I ask you something, sir?” Kix finally says quietly.

“Of course,” Agen answers, though it feels as if there's a knot in his chest. But—there shouldn’t be. This is a duty. Accepting what comes with it is part of that duty.

There's a careful breath, and Agen can hear Kix swallow. “I…heard what the general was accused of,” Kix says, and Agen opens his eyes, staring at the pale fabric of the tent wall. Kix is conflicted; there's a flicker of doubt that’s quickly steeled, an edge of something desperate. “Sir…”

Nothing else comes. Agen waits a handful of seconds, but Kix is struggling with his words, can't quite manage to put his thoughts into recognizable order. When there's nothing else, Agen simply inclines his head.

“They are only accusations,” he says. “Knight Skywalker will stand before the Council and be allowed to defend himself against the accusations brought to him.”

There's another pause, and Kix's hands stay still on Agen's skin as he takes a breath. “But—the accusation is that he killed a whole _village_ ,” Kix says, and his voice cracks a little.

Agen pauses, breathes out as realization settles. He straightens up a little, turning, and Kix meets his eyes helplessly as Agen faces him. There are several emotions at war on his face, and Agen can't help the way he softens faintly. Kix is…kind. He’s a healer in the same way T'ra is, always conscious of lives and what they mean, and hearing what Anakin did—or may have done—can't sit easily.

“Yes,” Agen says steadily. “It is only an accusation at this moment, but the accusation was brought by another member of the Order, and I would consider it more than credible enough to listen to.”

“And—you said it was from before the war,” Kix presses, even as his fingers smooth more bacta into Agen's skin, steady and careful. “Why did no one realize until now? Was—was General Skywalker back on Tatooine in secret, or—”

“Jedi are not forbidden from returning to their home planets,” Agen says. “Or from visiting family outside the Order. Anakin may have been back at some point that he did not reveal, but it is his actions there that are called into question, not his location.”

“Oh.” There's a brush of cloth, and then the strange cling of medical adhesive. Agen twitches before he can help himself, because of all the sensations that one has always bothered him in ways both deep and inexplicable. The reaction makes Kix wince, and he catches Agen's shoulder, holding him still with a firm grip as he smooths the patches down against Agen's skin.

There's another long pause, a swallow. Kix's hand stays where it is, and after a long moment he asks quietly, “Sir…what if it’s true, what General Skywalker did?”

Agen doesn’t flinch. “Then Knight Skywalker will be expelled from the Order,” he says evenly. “The Jedi have no room for those who would slaughter innocents, or engage in speciesism. We come from every corner of the galaxy, from races at war and at peace, and our mandate is compassion and the preservation of innocent life. That can never be forgotten.”

There's no immediate answer. Kix curls his fingers a little more tightly, tugs, and Agen turns and allows himself to be eased down onto the biobed on his side. Kix passes him for the controls, and a moment later Agen's breath slides out at the wash of deep warmth against his muscles. He resists the urge to roll over on his back and enjoy it fully, because Kix would probably be unhappy with him agitating the wounds, but he closes his eyes and enjoys the feeling as best he can.

There's a quiet huff of amusement, a hand in Agen's wet hair again. Kix gathers it up in his grip, drawing it forward over Agen's shoulder again, then lightly runs his fingers down over Agen's ribs.

“These definitely aren’t healing,” he says, and there's concern in his voice. “The fractures are getting more severe. I can give you more bacta patches, sir, but you’re going to have to keep from getting hit in the chest or the stomach for a few days. I—if your ribs break all the way, I don’t know how much I can help. We don’t have any anesthetic intended for Zabraks, and if I have to do surgery—” He breaks off, but the distress in hic voice is clear.

“I will be as careful as possible,” Agen promises quietly, because he can't offer more than that. He’s a Jedi, and there are troops to protect, a mission to finish.

“Thank you, sir.” Kix says, and offers Agen a flicker of a slightly wan smile. “You should stay still while the bacta works. I’ll go get some patches, too, but—want me to leave the heat on?”

Agen snorts, amused, and tips his head. “Am I allowed to lie on my back?” he asks.

Kix pauses, then sighs, though there's a flicker of amusement across his being. “Thank you for asking first,” he says, which is close enough to permission that Agen carefully rolls over, settling on his back with a sound of contentment. With a chuckle, Kix touches the controls, increasing the heat, and then moves away, steps quiet as he crosses the floor.

Agen keeps his eyes closed, letting the warmth seep into sore muscles, but—he tracks Kix's path, the fondness as he leans over the tattooed clone across the tent, the brush of something deeper as he considers something. It’s not what Agen expected, but he’ll wait and see what comes of it. Kix has the right to his own opinion, and Agen will accept whatever conclusion he comes to, even if part of him wants desperately to keep Kix's soft sort of kindness from shifting.

It’s a selfish impulse. Agen breathes in, breathes out, and lets it go.


	8. Chapter 8

“Kix,” Rex says with some relief, catching sight of the familiar white medkit. He turns, reaching out, and Kix ducks around where Fives and Echo are heaving a repaired scanner into the transport, coming to a stop at his side.

“Captain,” he says with a smile, and Rex can't help his own crooked smile in return, because Kix is always steady, even when it feels like everything else is falling off its axis.

“The general?” he asks, and something like guilt stirs, even though he’d offered Kolar his help getting to medical. Ahsoka was fine, though, and in light of that, it’s maybe a little easier to think that he should have insisted that Kolar let him at least _accompany_ him to the tent, even if he didn’t want help.

The worry that twists Kix's expression for an instant is familiar, even if it’s well-controlled. “I patched him up,” Kix says, which is a world away from _he’s fine_. “He left medical about ten minutes ago.”

Rex doesn’t grimace, but—that’s probably a long time to spend in medical, objectively. “It took that long to patch him up?”

Worry melts into amusement, and Kix smiles. “I wanted him to stay still for a bit, so I turned the heat on in a biobed,” he says, and the rap of his knuckles against Rex's pauldron is familiar enough to make Rex smile, too. “It works better with a Zabrak then it normally does with you.”

Rex snorts, because they’ve definitely had this struggle before. “I'm not feline,” he points out, and Kix rolls his eyes. With a chuckle, Rex steps back, pulling him out of the way of Jester’s squad as they head out for patrol, and asks, “Dogma?”

Kix grimaces faintly. “Stitch got his ankle wrapped and braced, and we got him some bacta, but without a bone-mender he’s going to be out for a couple of weeks. I got him back to the tent and set him up with a bunch of busywork, but…”

But. They're going to need every body, and having broken bones become an injury that needs weeks or months to recover from is going to cut down on manpower significantly. They're supposed to get appropriate bone-menders with the first influx of supplies, but—

The admiral’s holding those, and Kolar won't even bother to try and argue him out of them.

“We’ll figure something out,” Rex promises, and turns his hand, catching Kix's wrist and squeezing. It makes Kix smile at him, and he shifts just a little closer. Rex sees what he’s aiming for and leans in gladly, resting their foreheads together for an instant before he pulls away again.

“It leaves us down a man,” Kix says, soft. “Be careful.”

“You too,” Rex returns, because he’s not the squad medic, doesn’t have to regularly make himself vulnerable in the middle of a firefight. Kix keeps them all going, but—it’s dangerous, even more so for him than for the rest of them. Rex never quite manages to forget that.

Kix nods, slipping past him towards the transport, and Jesse offers him a hand up into it. Rex allows himself one more second of watching before he turns, nodding to Blackout as the man approaches. “All set?” he asks.

“I promise not to burn the camp down while you're gone,” Blackout promises dryly, but he clasps vambraces with Rex, then shifts back, watching as the last of the gear goes into the transport. “Be careful out there.”

Rex grimaces, and it still itches at him, the thought of _leaving_ when there's some kind of monster in the water. Ahsoka and Kolar both seem convinced that it’s a good idea, though, and Rex has no idea how to argue with a Jedi about that kind of thing. Doesn’t even know if he _should_ , honestly; he’s seen General Kenobi pull off some of the most ridiculous maneuvers with just a feeling to go off of.

“I doubled the watch on the edges of camp,” he says, “and Koho and Oz are watching the sensors—”

Blackout puts a hand between his shoulder blades and shoves lightly. “ _Vod_ , we already had this briefing twice. Go lead your squad, and make sure the Jedi get back in one piece.”

Rex huffs, mildly chagrined, but doesn’t let Blackout push him without shoving him back. “I'm just _checking_ —” he protests, half-turning—

Collides with a body that isn't hard with armor, but staggers. There’s a sharp breath, a step back, and Rex jerks in alarm, tries to pull himself upright even as his balance wavers. Gets a face-full of sea-salt smell and crushed flowers, startling against the ever-present ocean smell of the camp, and then there's a hand on his shoulder, another on his waist, steadying him. Kolar gets him back on his feet and sidesteps neatly, then asks, “Are you all right, Captain?”

Rex _isn't_ going to turn red, even if he just almost ran over a Jedi. Even if he just got caught horsing around like a _shiny_. Quickly, guiltily, he straightens, taking two steps back, and says, “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to…”

Kolar doesn’t smile, but his expression isn't quite as severe as normal as he inclines his head. “I've heard,” he says gravely, “that a foot around the ankle when you're pushed will take an opponent down with you.”

For a moment, Rex can't even _begin_ to comprehend that. He feels a flare of disbelief that Kolar actually thinks they're fighting, realizes how stupid that is and runs face-first into the fact that Kolar is making a _joke_ , and promptly has no idea what to do with that. Stops, brain not able to scrape up so much as a single word in response, and stares dumbly.

Thankfully, Blackout steps into the gap without hesitation. “Yeah, General?” he asks. “Sounds like you have _experience_.”

Kolar arches one dark brow. “Whatever stories you may have heard from Master Ti, I assure you, she exaggerates,” he says coolly.

Blackout laughs. “ _Ti_?” he asks, clearly delighted. “You picked on _General Ti_ as a kid, sir?”

Kolar snorts. “I think it’s rather that she picked on me,” he says, bland. “Shaak was two years older, and she objected to my incessant questions.”

Rex can't even begin to wrap his head around that one. Not just General Ti picking on another sentient, but—Kolar being an obnoxious kid full of questions. It’s…bewildering.

With a huff, Blackout tips his head. “Did she manage to make you stop?” he asks.

There's a moment as Kolar considers this gravely. “I don’t believe it did,” he says finally. “I was introduced to my future Master a year before Shaak left the crèche, though, and found someone else to ask.”

Rex opens his mouth, closes it again. Turns that over for a second, and then asks, “You knew your Master before she picked you to be her padawan?” Then, belatedly, he realizes that he’s prying, and stiffens, ready for a brush-off, or a huffy reprimand. Anakin doesn’t like talking about the Temple, or anything that happened before he came to the Temple, and—

“Yes,” Kolar answers, and he just sounds…soft, maybe. It’s hard to read him when his expression is still that same calm, steady one that Rex hasn’t seen change much. “The Force draws together those who are meant to be master and student, often well before an initiate is ready to leave the crèche. It provides familiarity, when they do.” There's a pause, and his fingers brush the hilt clipped to his belt. “I met my last padawan five years before he was ready to advance, and helped mentor him through his classes.”

“We’re getting another commander?” Blackout asks, surprised. “Or—I guess he probably made Knight already.”

For a long, long moment, there's no answer. Kolar's eyes slide closed, and Rex watches with a flicker of surprise as his expression twists, a visible show of emotion when even getting grabbed by a sea monster didn’t cause such a thing. He just breathes for a moment, and wraps loose fingers around his lightsaber. Then, deliberate, he releases it, dropping his hand from his belt.

“No,” he says finally. “My padawan was killed on Geonosis, during the fighting in the arena.”

It feels like a cold shock right through Rex's chest, jarring. The first battle of the war, and—he knows, intellectually, that a lot of Jedi died on Geonosis that day. But—a _padawan_ —

“Oh,” Blackout says quietly. “Sorry, sir. I wasn’t aware.”

“There is no way you could have known,” Kolar says simply. He pauses, then smiles, ever so faintly. “I believe Tan would have loved the clones fiercely, and returned your loyalty fully. It pains me that he was never given the chance to meet you.”

Deliberately, Kolar gives Blackout a half-bow, then straightens and continues towards the transport. Before he can make it all the way there, he’s waylaid by one of the techs. Rex checks Koho’s face, but there’s no outright alarm there, so it’s probably not something about to eat all of them.

From his shoulder, there's a heavy breath, and Blackout rubs a hand over his face. “Kriff,” he mutters. “Open mouth, insert extra-large boot.”

Rex feels the same way, even if he’s not the one who asked the question. A dead padawan, he thinks, and—he didn’t even know the kid, but it still aches. Jedi die too easily, and—if it was on Geonosis, it was probably just before General Yoda arrived with the clones. The clones probably could have saved Kolar's padawan if they’d gotten there sooner. Rex was still in training, and he _knows_ that guilt is useless, but that doesn’t change the fact that he feels it.

Learning that puts Kolar's reaction to Ahsoka diving into the sea after him into perspective, though. Rex had been expecting him to yell at her, but—he’d praised her instead. Like he knew that a reprimand from a Master would crush her, but an acknowledgement, despite her recklessness, was necessary. Looking at that, it makes sense that he’s had padawans before, but Rex just…hadn’t thought about it.

It seems strange that the Council would let someone with a nickname like _attack dog_ take on a student, that’s all.

“Think of it this way,” he tells Blackout, clapping him on the shoulder. “Now you have until we get back to lick your wounds and get ready for the _next_ stupid thing you’ll say.”

“Bastard,” Blackout mutters, and raps his knuckles against Rex's temple. “Put on your helmet so that beacon on your head doesn’t give you away.”

Rex rolls his eyes, because he’s definitely never heard _that_ before after being blond from the moment of decanting, but he pulls his bucket on anyway. “Don’t get eaten by a sea monster,” he retorts, and Blackout waves him off, stepping back towards the command tent. Rex turns to the transport, pausing to check over those present, and frowns a little at the sight of Tup in the back, next to Hardcase. Tup's the next best thing to a shiny; he only put his first paint on right before this campaign started, and even Dogma's got more experience.

“It’ll be fine, sir,” Fives says, and Rex can hear the smile in his voice. “We’ll keep an eye on him, but he’s pretty steady under pressure.”

Rex snorts quietly. “You shinies have to stick together?” he asks dryly, and Echo, behind Fives, makes a sound of deep offense.

Before he can say anything, though, Fives kicks him lightly in the shin, and says, “Commander incoming.”

Rex looks around automatically, and the relief at seeing Ahsoka up and walking and apparently uninjured is still sharp in his chest. She grins at him, but passes him without pause, and says, “Master Kolar, I dried your cloak.”

Kolar gives Koho a last murmured answer and then turns, taking the dark cloth. “Thank you, padawan,” he says formally, and unfolds it, pulling it over his shoulders and then tugging his long hair free. “You have your own?”

Ahsoka pauses, then says, “I don’t usually wear one, Master. Do I need to?”

Kolar shakes his head. “As long as you are comfortable, padawan,” he returns calmly. Reaches into the pocket of his robe, then pauses.

“Oh,” Ahsoka says, and digs into one of the pouches on her belt. “Here, Master, this was in the pocket.”

It’s a flower, small and delicate and pale pink, oddly fresh-looking where it rests in Ahsoka's palm. Rex blinks in surprise, but before he can even process that, Kolar smiles. It’s faint, but clear, and he reaches out, picking the flower up and sliding it through one of the wraps on his hair.

“Thank you, Ahsoka,” he says quietly. “I am grateful you kept it safe.”

Ahsoka flushes faintly, but smiles back at him. “It felt…different,” she says. “In the Force. I figured it was important.”

“My Master gave it to me on our way here,” Kolar says, brushing the petals. “Many Neti are strong in the Force, and Master T'ra is particularly so. To carry something of hers can be a comfort.”

Ahsoka bites her lip, but after a moment she says, “Master Saa taught meditation classes when I was in the crèche. She’s always so calm and patient. It’s—it’s really nice.”

“Yes,” Kolar agrees, and the seriousness on his face should be comical, but—Rex finds he has to look away. “She is very wise, as well. Training under her was an honor.”

There's a clear second of hesitation and then Ahsoka bursts out, “Master Skywalker—he just—he gets impatient sometimes, Master Kolar, and he goes too fast.” When Rex flicks an alarmed look at her, she’s struggling for words, but after a second she steels herself visibly and asks, “Master Saa won't judge him for that, will she? Or the Council?”

Rex braces himself for a cold response, or a cutting answer, or a dismissal. After all, Kolar is the one who fought a fellow Jedi, who got his lit lightsaber under Anakin's chin.

Instead, though, there's a moment of silence, like Kolar was caught by surprise, and then he reaches up, gripping Ahsoka's shoulder lightly.

“Peace, padawan,” he says, quiet. “Your Master will be judged for nothing but what the facts show, and then only before the Council. As Jedi, we are obligated to look into all credible accusations brought against our own.”

Ahsoka swallows. “I don’t know why you think it’s credible,” she says, and there's an edge to the words. “Master Skywalker _wouldn’t_ do that.”

“Then it should be a simple matter to disprove,” Kolar says calmly, but he squeezes her shoulder before he lets go. “Be mindful of your emotions, Padawan Tano. You are brave, and clever, and a credit to Skywalker. Have faith that the Force will see him through this if he is innocent of what he has been accused of.”

Ahsoka doesn’t quite look settled, but she curls her arms around herself for a moment, then nods. “I'm just worried,” she says. “What if…”

Kolar studies her for a moment. “What if the Council is being deceived?” he asks, but there's no trace of offense in it. When Ahsoka winces, but nods, he snorts softly, resting a light hand between her montrals for a moment. “Padawan, who do you think brought these accusations?”

There's a startled pause, and then Ahsoka looks up. “Another Jedi?” she asks, caught off guard. “I—I thought…”

Another Jedi, Rex thinks, and has to swallow, turning his eyes to the weathered metal of the transport. He hadn’t quite _thought_ that the Council would drop everything and investigate one of their own on the word of a stranger, but—maybe he hadn’t entirely made the connection that it was a Jedi who brought the accusations.

And—what does that mean, really? Another Jedi could be wrong, but Rex's instinct is to believe them, at least more so than an outsider. He curls his hands into fists, trying to make himself breathe, and wonders if there’s infighting in the Temple. Wonders if someone could be jealous, or out to get Anakin, but—that doesn’t seem like something Jedi would do. But Rex can't understand _why_ another Jedi would lie, or be so completely mistaken, and it twists like nausea in his chest.

“Yes,” Kolar confirms, not ungently. “When the Council holds its next meeting regarding your Master, you may attend with me if you like. You and the captain as well.”

Rex winces, caught, and turns to face Kolar. “Yes, sir,” he says quickly. “I’d…be grateful.”

Kolar inclines his head to him. “This is not meant to be a secret trial,” he says. “Knight Skywalker is a Jedi, and will be treated as such. He will face those who accuse him, and see the evidence the Council has gathered, with full rights to dispute it. The Council is fair.”

Rex believes it. He _does_. But at the same time, this whole thing _reeks_ , and he doesn’t know how to feel about it.

Before he has to decide, Kolar moves past him, leaping lightly up into the transport, then turning to offer a hand. To _Rex_ , not Ahsoka, who bounds up after him without trouble. Rex blinks at it for a moment, bemused, then reaches out. Kolar's grip on his hand is firm, warm even through the thick gauntlet, and he hauls Rex, in full armor and already not exactly light out of it, up into the transport without any apparent difficulty. It makes Rex think of the first time he saw Ahsoka pick Anakin up off his feet and just _toss_ him, and he has to hide his amusement. The clones all grew up with strength training, already engineered to be the peak of Human strength, so it’s sometimes a little startling to realize that there are a lot of species out there who are just naturally a hell of a lot stronger than any Human, genetically engineered or not.

Kolar doesn’t wait around for thanks after he pulls Rex up; before Rex can even decide whether to say it or not, Kolar is moving away, joining Ahsoka near the other door. “I heard from Master Ti that you are a very skilled hunter,” he says. “She was quite impressed by your akul hunt.”

Rex doesn’t have to be a Jedi to feel Ahsoka's wash of delight, her bright pleasure at the comment. “Really? I mean, uh, she was a really good teacher, and I got lucky—”

“It requires skill to take advantage of the openings that luck presents,” Kolar says seriously. “I am a tracker myself, and I believe that between the two of us we should be able to track any droids that have gotten past the settlement, even in the salt forest.”

“I think so,” Ahsoka says determinedly. “There can't be that many, because we stopped all the ones we caught, so—I bet any that are there aren’t in great shape.”

Kolar inclines his head, long hair catching the light. “That was my assumption as well,” he agrees, and glances back at Rex. “Captain?”

Rex takes one more look around the transport, gets an all-clear hand sign from Echo, and nods. “Ready to go, General.”

“Thank you, Captain. Hardcase, if you would take us up? We should be able to land in the settlement.”

“Yes, sir,” Hardcase says from the cockpit, grinning. “We’re not landing in the forest, right? I don’t have to set down in a tree?”

Kolar huffs. “You would be hard-pressed to do so, regardless of your skill. The trees here are fragile, and liable to break if you hit them too hard.”

Rex grimaces. One stray shot making a tree _explode_ proved that well enough. “Settlement, Hardcase,” he says firmly. “Keep it simple.”

“Captain,” Hardcase acknowledges cheerfully, and a moment later the engines hum to life. Rex gives it a few seconds to catch his balance, then steels himself and crosses to the other door, where Kolar has his eyes on the ocean.

“Sir,” he says. “Would you be willing to ask the mayor about allowing us to search the mines? I know she said they're not in operation, but…”

“But there may be something there that is drawing the droids,” Kolar agrees. “I will make the request, but I have confidence Maava Rota will be agreeable. She wishes to know the cause of the invasion just as much as we do.”

Easy agreement. Rex isn't sure what he was expecting there, either, but—it’s good. He tells himself it’s fine, and this is what he wanted. The prickle down his spine is just…a reaction to the difference. Anakin had been sure they didn’t actually need to go into the mines, after all. “Thank you, sir.”

Kolar nods, his gaze going back to the ocean as the plateau starts to grow on the horizon. He doesn’t answer, but a frown crosses his face, and he straightens, one hand coming up to grip the edge of the door. The way he leans out makes Rex automatically step forward, ready to grab him by the back of the robes and haul him to safety if he falls, but thankfully he doesn’t have to. Kolar stops, cocking his head, and goes perfectly still in a way that’s almost unnerving.

“Padawan,” he says after a long second. “Do you feel that?”

Ahsoka blinks, looking up from her comm, and turns. Rex can see her focus, the way her eyes narrow, then widen.

“Nothing,” she says, and there's a thread of alarm in her voice that makes Rex straighten instantly. “There's nothing.”

Kolar's breath is short, sharp. He doesn’t answer, but raises his voice and says, “Hardcase, as quickly as possible.”

“Sir?” Hardcase asks, surprised, but the transport picks up speed, engines rattling as Hardcase pushes it to its limits. Rex swallows his curse, grabbing one of the straps before he can lose his balance, and Kolar reaches back automatically, catching his shoulder to steady him.

“Something is wrong in the settlement,” Kolar says grimly, and Rex feels a flicker of disbelief, a wash of alarm that leaves him cold. “Captain, please try to raise the advance squads there.”

Kriff. Rex jerks his comm up, calling up the right frequency by memory. “Denal,” he says sharply. “Sergeant Denal, report.”

There's no answer, just silence on the other end of the line.

Denal wouldn’t have been taken out, Rex thinks, and swallows. He’s been in the 501st since before Rex even took command, and he’s survived more missions than any three other clones combined. Denal is _good_. If someone _did_ attack the settlement, there's no way they would have done it fast enough that Denal wouldn’t even get a _message_ out. All the squads have emergency beacons, too, able to be turned on in a fraction of a second, and Denal’s hasn’t been activated. That’s—alarming.

“But we just _left_ the settlement,” Ahsoka says, disbelief more than protest. “The droids never hit again this quickly.”

They haven’t before, though Rex has learned that doesn’t mean a hell of a lot in the scheme of things. Grimly, he tries again, and says, “Torrent, get ready to move,” as the edge of the settlement comes into view below. Rex usually sees it when it’s under attack, so he can't say anything for the normal levels of activity, but—it looks deserted. There's no one near the water, no movement in the dry streets. No signs of a fight, either, and something cold crawls down Rex's spine. He’d be more relieved if the whole place were burning, he thinks unhappily.

The transport bleeds speed, flips around almost a hundred and eighty degrees to come in for a teeth-jolting landing, but Kolar is leaping down as soon as they're close, landing lightly, and immediately reaching for his lightsaber. Ahsoka is a fraction of a second after him, green blade igniting as she lands, but there’s no one to fight. As the engines die, Rex realizes that the silence isn't just on the other end of the comm. There's nothing but the lap of the sea, the wind through the empty buildings. He steps down from the transport into a perfectly silent world, and it’s entirely unnerving.

“Fan out, sir?” he asks, already raising a hand to signal Fives and Echo to split off with Hardcase.

A shake of Kolar's head stops him short. “No,” Kolar says quietly, and heads down a narrow street, steps quick. Rex follows, glancing over at Ahsoka to see what she thinks, but her eyes are on the buildings around them, a strange, distant look on her face as she listens for something Rex can't hear.

And then, sharp, Kolar comes to a halt and drops to one knee. Rex has one flash of alarm, horror at the thought that he’s been hit, that somethings _happened_ —

Kolar shoves a tangled blanket aside, and white comes clear. White and blue, piled up on the ground, and horror calcifies into pure, numbing _dread_ that stops Rex's breath completely, locks it in his chest. He hears Fives’s curse like it’s kilometers away, Kix's indrawn breath like it’s a shot. Stares, frozen, at the jumbled pile of clone trooper armor left lying off to one side of the street, ten helmets ringing it.

There's no blood. There's no sign of a struggle. Just a tangle of armor that no clone would ever treat that way, and Denal’s abandoned helmet sitting in the center of the surrounding ring, staring down the wide street and straight out into the salt forests beyond.


End file.
